THE  WAYS  OF 

MEN 


BY 


Eliot  Gregory 

("An  Idler"} 
Author  of  " Worldly  Ways  and  Byways" 


NEW   YORK 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
MCM 


Copyright)  1900,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


D.  B.  Updike,  The  Merrymount  Press,  Boston 


Edith  Wharton 

'/  have  not  lacked  thy  mild  reproof, 
Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise" 


A  Table  of  Contents 


No.     i.  "Uncle  Sam"  i 

2.  'Domestic  'Despots  6 

3.  Cyrano,  Rostand,  Coquelin  14 

4.  ^Machine-made  <£Men  25 

5.  Parnassus  34 

6.  ^Modern  Architecture  42 

7.  Worldly  Color-blindness  53 

8.  Idling  in  ^Mid-ocean  60 

9.  ^Climbers"  in  England  67 

10.  Calve  at  Cabrieres  75 

1 1.  zA  Cry  for  Fresh  zAir  83 

1 2.  T/^  fans  of  our  grandparents  91 

13.  A$0#z<?  ^American  Husbands  99 

14.  "Carolus"  107 

1 5 .  T*he  (jrand  Opera  Fad  114 

1 6.  The  ^Poetic  Cabarets  of  far  is  126 

17.  Etiquette  at  Home  and  Abroad  141 

1 8.  What  is  "vfrt"?  148 

19.  The  Cj-enea logical  Craze  155 

20.  <L#S  the  Twig  is  *Bent  162 

2 1 .  *S?w#  Small  'Duchesses  1 70 

22.  (growing  Old  Ungracefully  180 

23.  ^Around  a  Spring  186 

24.  The  'Better  fart  1 94 


d    TABLE    OF    CONTENTS 

No.  25. 
26. 
27. 
28. 
29. 

3°- 
31- 
32. 
33- 

La  Comedie  Francaise  a  Orange 
^re-palatial  ZN^ewport 
Sardou  at  <3V[arly-le-<T$loy 
Inconsistencies 
^Modern  "  Cadets  de  (jascogne" 
'The  'Dinner  and  the  'Drama 
The  ^Modern  Aspasia 
<*A  Ration  in  a  Hurry 
The  Spirit  of  History 

2OI 
2IO 

218 
230 

239 

249 
258 

264 
276 

The  Ways  of  Men 


The  Ways  of  Men 


NO-  i 

"Uncle  Sam" 


THE  gentleman  who  graced  the  guberna 
torial  arm-chair  of  our  state  when  this 
century  was  born  happened  to  be  an 
admirer  of  classic  lore  and  the  sonorous  names 
of  antiquity. 

It  is  owing  to  his  weakness  in  bestowing  pom 
pous  cognomens  on  our  embryo  towns  and  vil 
lages  that  to-day  names  like  Utica,  Syracuse, 
and  Ithaca,  instead  of  evoking  visions  of  historic 
pomp  and  circumstance,  raise  in  the  minds  of 
most  Americans  the  picture  of  cocky  little  cities, 
rich  only  in  trolley-cars  and  Methodist  meeting 
houses. 

When,  however,  this  cultured  governor,  in  his 
ardor,  christened  one  of  the  cities  Troy,  and  the 
hill  in  its  vicinity  Mount  Ida,  he  little  dreamed 
that  a  youth  was  living  on  its  slopes  whose  name 
was  destined  to  become  a  household  word  the 
world  over,  as  the  synonym  for  the  proudest 
and  wealthiest  republic  yet  known  to  history,  a 
sobriquet  that  would  be  familiar  in  the  mouths 


THE    WdrS    OF 


of  races  to  whose  continents  even  the  titles  of 
Jupiter  or  Mars  had  never  penetrated. 

A  little  before  this  century  began,  two  boys 
with  packs  bound  on  their  stalwart  shoulders 
walked  from  New  York  and  established  a  brick 
yard  in  the  neighborhood  of  what  is  now  Perry 
Street,  Troy.  Ebenezer  and  Samuel  Wilson  soon 
became  esteemed  citizens  of  the  infant  city,  their 
kindliness  and  benevolence  winning  for  them  the 
affection  and  respect  of  the  community. 

The  younger  brother,  Samuel,  was  an  especial 
favorite  with  the  children  of  the  place,  whose  ex 
plorations  into  his  deep  pockets  were  generally  re 
warded  by  the  discovery  of  some  simple  "sweet" 
or  home-made  toy.  The  slender  youth  with  the 
"nutcracker"  face  proving  to  be  the  merriest  of 
playfellows,  in  their  love  his  little  band  of  admir 
ers  gave  him  the  pet  name  of  "Uncle  Sam,"  by 
which  he  quickly  became  known,  to  the  exclusion 
of  his  real  name.  This  is  the  kindly  and  humble 
origin  of  a  title  the  mere  speaking  of  which  to 
day  quickens  the  pulse  and  moistens  the  eyes  of 
millions  of  Americans  with  the  same  thrill  that 
the  dear  old  flag  arouses  when  we  catch  sight  of 
it,  especially  an  unexpected  glimpse  in  some  for 
eign  land. 

With  increasing  wealth  the  brick-yard  of  the 
Wilson  brothers  was  replaced  by  an  extensive 
slaughtering  business,  in  which  more  than  a  hun 
dred  men  were  soon  employed  —  a  vast  establish 
ment  for  that  day,  killing  weekly  some  thousand 

[a] 


head  of  cattle.  During  the  military  operations  of 
1812  the  brothers  signed  a  contract  to  furnish  the 
troops  at  Greenbush  with  meat,  "packed  in  full 
bound  barrels  of  white  oak";  soon  after,  Samuel 
was  appointed  Inspector  of  Provisions  for  the 
army. 

It  is  a  curious  coincidence  that  England  also 
should  have  taken  an  ex-army-contractor  as  her 
patron  saint,  for  if  we  are  to  believe  tradition, 
St.  George  of  Cappadocia  filled  that  position 
unsatisfactorily  before  he  passed  through  mar 
tyrdom  to  sainthood. 

True  prototype  of  the  nation  that  was  later  to 
adopt  him  as  its  godfather,  the  shrewd  and  honest 
patriot,  "Uncle  Sam,"  not  only  lived  loyally  up 
to  his  contracts,  giving  full  measure  and  of  his 
best,  but  proved  himself  incorruptible,  making  it 
his  business  to  see  that  others  too  fulfilled  their 
engagements  both  in  the  letter  and  the  spirit;  so 
that  the  "U.  S."  (abbreviation  of  United  States) 
which  he  pencilled  on  all  provisions  that  had 
passed  his  inspection  became  in  the  eyes  of  offi 
cers  and  soldiers  a  guarantee  of  excellence.  Sam 
uel's  old  friends,  the  boys  of  Troy  (now  enlisted 
in  the  army),  naively  imagining  that  the  mystic 
initials  were  an  allusion  to  the  pet  name  they  had 
given  him  years  before,  would  accept  no  meats 
but  "Uncle  Sam's,"  murmuring  if  other  viands 
were  offered  them.  Their  comrades  without  in 
quiry  followed  this  example;  until  so  strong  did 
the  prejudice  for  food  marked  "U.  S."  become, 

[3] 


THE    WtATS    OF 


that  other  contractors,  in  order  that  their  provi 
sions  should  find  favor  with  the  soldiers,  took  to 
announcing  "Uncle  Sam"  brands. 

To  the  greater  part  of  the  troops,  ignorant  (as 
are  most  Americans  to-day)  of  the  real  origin  of 
this  pseudonym,  "Uncle  Sam's"  beef  and  bread 
meant  merely  government  provisions,  and  the 
step  from  national  belongings  to  an  impersona 
tion  of  our  country  by  an  ideal  "Uncle  Sam" 
was  but  a  logical  sequence. 

In  his  vigorous  old  age,  Samuel  Wilson  again 
lived  on  Mount  Ida,  near  the  estates  of  the  War 
ren  family,  where  as  children  we  were  taken  to 
visit  his  house  and  hear  anecdotes  of  the  aged 
patriot's  hospitality  and  humor.  The  honor  in 
which  he  was  held  by  the  country-side,  the  in 
fluence  for  good  he  exerted,  and  the  informal  tri 
bunal  he  held,  to  which  his  neighbors  came  to  get 
their  differences  straightened  out  by  his  common 
sense,  are  still  talked  of  by  the  older  inhabitants. 
One  story  in  particular  used  to  charm  our  boy 
ish  ears.  It  was  about  a  dispute  over  land  between 
the  Livingstons  and  the  Van  Rensselaers,  which 
was  brought  to  an  end  by  "Uncle  Sam's"  pro 
ducing  a  barrel  of  old  papers  (confided  to  him  by 
both  families  during  the  war,  for  safe  keeping) 
and  extracting  from  this  original  "strong  box" 
title  deeds  to  the  property  in  litigation. 

Now,  in  these  troubled  times  of  ours,  when 
rumors  of  war  are  again  in  the  air,  one's  thoughts 
revert  with  pleasure  to  the  half-mythical  figure 

[4] 


on  the  threshold  of  the  century,  and  to  legends 
of  the  clear-eyed  giant,  with  the  quizzical  smile 
and  the  tender,  loyal  heart,  whose  life's  work 
makes  him  a  more  lovable  model  and  a  nobler 
example  to  hold  up  before  the  youth  of  to-day 
than  all  the  mythological  deities  that  ever  dis 
ported  themselves  on  the  original  Mount  Ida. 
There  is  a  singular  fitness  in  this  choice  of 
"Uncle  Sam"  as  our  patron  saint,  for  to  be  hon 
est  and  loyal  and  modest,  to  love  little  children, 
to  do  one's  duty  quietly  in  the  heyday  of  life,  and 
become  a  mediator  in  old  age,  is  to  fulfil  about 
the  whole  duty  of  man;  and  every  patriotic  heart 
must  wish  the  analogy  may  be  long  maintained, 
that  our  loved  country,  like  its  prototype,  may 
continue  the  proteftor  of  the  feeble  and  a  peace 
maker  among  nations. 


[5] 


°-  2 


Domestic  Despots 


THOSE  who  walk  through  the  well-to-do 
quarters  of  our  city,  and  glance,  perhaps 
a  little  enviously  as  they  pass,  toward 
the  cheerful  firesides,  do  not  reflect  that  in  al 
most  every  one  of  these  apparently  happy  homes 
a  pitiless  tyrant  reigns,  a  misshapen  monster  with 
out  bowels  of  compassion  or  thought  beyond  its 
own  greedy  appetites,  who  sits  like  Sinbad's  aw 
ful  burden  on  the  necks  of  tender  women  and 
distracted  men.  Sometimes  this  incubus  takes  the 
form  of  a  pug,  sometimes  of  a  poodle,  or  simply 
a  bastard  cur  admitted  to  the  family  bosom  in  a 
moment  of  unreflecting  pity;  size  and  pedigree 
are  of  no  importance;  the  result  is  always  the 
same.  Once  Caliban  is  installed  in  his  stronghold, 
peace  and  independence  desert  that  roof. 

We  read  daily  of  fathers  tyrannizing  over 
trembling  families,  of  stepmothers  and  unnatu 
ral  children  turning  what  might  be  happy  homes 
into  amateur  Infernos,  and  sigh,  as  we  think  of 
martyrdoms  endured  by  overworked  animals. 

It  is  cheering  to  know  that  societies  have  been 
formed  for  the  protection  of  dumb  brutes  and 
helpless  children.  Will  no  attempt  be  made  to 
alleviate  this  other  form  of  suffering,  which  has 
apparently  escaped  the  eye  of  the  reformer  ? 

The   animal   kingdom   is   divided  —  like  all 

[6] 


DOMESTIC    VESPOTS 

Gaul — into  three  divisions:  wild  beasts,  that 
are  obliged  to  hustle  for  themselves;  laboring 
and  producing  animals,  for  which  man  provides 
because  they  are  useful  to  him — and  dogs  !  Of 
all  created  things  on  our  globe  the  canine  race 
have  the  softest  "snap."  The  more  one  thinks 
about  this  curious  exception  in  their  favor  the 
more  unaccountable  it  appears.  We  neglect  such 
wild  things  as  we  do  not  slaughter,  and  exact  toil 
from  domesticated  animals  in  return  for  their 
keep.  Dogs  alone,  shirking  all  cares  and  labor, 
live  in  idle  comfort  at  man's  expense. 

When  that  painful  family  jar  broke  up  the 
little  garden  party  in  Eden  and  forced  our  first 
parents  to  work  or  hunt  for  a  living,  the  origi 
nal  Dog  (equally  disgusted  with  either  alterna 
tive)  hit  on  the  luminous  idea  of  posing  as  the 
champion  of  the  disgraced  couple,  and  attached 
himself  to  Adam  and  Eve;  not  that  he  approved 
of  their  conduct,  but  simply  because  he  foresaw 
that  if  he  made  himself  companionable  and  cosy 
he  would  be  asked  to  stay  to  dinner. 

From  that  day  to  the  present,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  occasionally  watching  sheep  and  houses 
— a  lazy  occupation  at  the  best — and  a  little 
light  carting  in  Belgium  (dogs  were  given  up  as 
turn-spits  centuries  ago,  because  they  performed 
that  duty  badly),  no  canine  has  raised  a  paw  to 
do  an  honest  day's  work,  neither  has  any  mem 
ber  of  the  genus  been  known  voluntarily  to  per 
form  a  useful  act. 

[7] 


THE    IT^TS    OF 


How  then  —  one  asks  one's  self  in  a  wonder 
—  did  the  myth  originate  that  Dog  was  the 
friend  of  Man?  Like  a  multitude  of  other  fal 
lacies  taught  to  innocent  children,  this  folly  must 
be  unlearned  later.  Friend  of  man,  indeed  !  Why, 
the  "Little  Brothers  of  the  Rich"  are  guileless 
philanthropists  in  comparison  with  most  canines, 
and  unworthy  to  be  named  in  the  same  breath 
with  them.  Dogs  discovered  centuries  ago  that 
to  live  in  luxury,  it  was  only  necessary  to  as 
sume  an  exaggerated  affection  for  some  wealthy 
mortal,  and  have  since  proved  themselves  past 
masters  in  a  difficult  art  in  which  few  men  suc 
ceed.  The  number  of  human  beings  who  man 
age  to  live  on  their  friends  is  small,  whereas  the 
veriest  mongrel  cur  contrives  to  enjoy  food  and 
lodging  at  some  dupe's  expense. 

Facts  such  as  these,  however,  have  not  over 
thrown  the  great  dog  myth.  One  can  hardly  open 
a  child's  book  without  coming  across  some  tale 
of  canine  intelligence  and  devotion.  My  tender 
youth  was  saddened  by  the  story  of  one  disin 
terested  dog  that  refused  to  leave  his  master's 
grave  and  was  found  frozen  at  his  post  on  a  bleak 
winter's  morning.  With  the  experience  of  years 
in  pet  dogs  I  now  suspect  that,  instead  of  acting 
in  this  theatrical  fashion,  that  pup  trotted  home 
from  the  funeral  with  the  most  prosperous  and 
simple-minded  couple  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
after  a  substantial  meal  went  to  sleep  by  the  fire. 
He  must  have  been  a  clever  dog  to  get  so  much 

[  8]     . 


DOMESTIC    TtESTOTS 

free  advertisement,  so  probably  strolled  out  to 
his  master's  grave  the  next  noon,  when  people 
were  about  to  hear  him,  and  howled  a  little  to 
keep  up  appearances. 

I  have  written  "the  richest  and  most  simple- 
minded  couple,"  because  centuries  of  self-seek 
ing  have  developed  in  these  beasts  an  especial 
aptitude  for  spotting  possible  victims  at  a  glance. 
You  will  rarely  find  dogs  coquetting  with  the 
strong-minded  or  wasting  blandishments  where 
there  is  not  the  probability  of  immediate  profit; 
but  once  let  even  a  puppy  get  a  tender-hearted 
girl  or  aged  couple  under  his  influence,  no  pity 
will  be  shown  the  victims. 

There  is  a  house  not  a  square  away  from  Mr. 
Gerry's  philanthropic  headquarters,  where  a  state 
of  things  exists  calculated  to  extract  tears  from  a 
custom-house  official .  Two  elderly  virgins  are 
there  held  in  bondage  by  a  Minotaur  no  bigger 
than  your  two  fists.  These  good  dames  have  a 
taste  for  travelling,  but  change  of  climate  dis 
agrees  with  their  tyrant.  They  dislike  house 
keeping  and,  like  good  Americans,  would  prefer 
hotel  life,  nevertheless  they  keep  up  an  estab 
lishment  in  a  cheerless  side  street,  with  a  retinue 
of  servants,  because,  forsooth,  their  satrap  exacts 
a  back  yard  where  he  can  walk  of  a  morning. 
These  spinsters,  although  loving  sisters,  no 
longer  go  about  together,  Caligula's  nerves  be 
ing  so  shaken  that  solitude  upsets  them.  He 
would  sooner  expire  than  be  left  alone  with  the 

[9] 


THE    W^rS    OF 


servant,  for  the  excellent  reason  that  his  bad 
temper  and  absurd  airs  have  made  him  danger 
ous  enemies  below  stairs  —  and  he  knows  it  ! 

Another  household  in  this  city  revolves  around 
two  brainless,  goggle-eyed  beasts,  imported  at 
much  expense  from  the  slopes  of  Fuji-yama. 
The  care  that  is  lavished  on  those  heathen  mon 
sters  passes  belief.  Maids  are  employed  to  carry 
them  up  and  down  stairs,  and  men  are  called  in 
the  night  to  hurry  for  a  doctor  when  Chi  has  over 
eaten  or  Fu  develops  colic;  yet  their  devoted 
mistress  tells  me,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  in 
spite  of  this  care,  when  she  takes  her  darlings  for 
a  walk  they  do  not  know  her  from  the  first  stran 
ger  that  passes,  and  will  follow  any  boy  who 
whistles  to  them  in  the  street. 

What  revolts  me  in  the  character  of  dogs  is 
that,  not  content  with  escaping  from  the  respon 
sibilities  entailed  on  all  the  other  inhabitants  of 
our  globe  by  the  struggle  for  existence,  these 
four-legged  Pecksniffs  have  succeeded  in  making 
for  themselves  a  fallacious  reputation  for  honesty 
and  devotion.  What  little  lingering  belief  I  had 
in  canine  fidelity  succumbed  when  I  was  told  that 
St.  Bernards  —  those  models  of  integrity  and 
courage  —  have  fallen  into  the  habit  of  carrying 
the  flasks  of  brandy  that  the  kind  monks  pro 
vide  for  the  succor  of  snowbound  travellers,  to 
the  neighboring  hamlets  and  exchanging  the  con 
tents  for  —  chops  ! 

Will  the  world  ever  wake  to  the  true  character 

[  10] 


'DOMESTIC    DESPOTS 

of  these  four-legged  impostors  and  realize  that 
instead  of  being  disinterested  and  sincere,  most 
family  pets  are  consummate  hypocrites.  Inno 
cent  ?  Pshaw  !  Their  pretty,  coaxing  ways  and 
pretences  of  affection  are  unadulterated  guile; 
their  ostentatious  devotion,  simply  a  clever  ma 
noeuvre  to  excite  interest  and  obtain  unmerited 
praise.  It  is  useless,  however,  to  hope  that  things 
will  change.  So  long  as  this  giddy  old  world  goes 
on  waltzing  in  space,  so  long  shall  we  continue 
to  be  duped  by  shams  and  pin  our  faith  on  frauds, 
confounding  an  attractive  bearing  with  a  sweet 
disposition  and  mistaking  dishevelled  hair  and 
eccentric  appearance  for  brains.  Even  in  the  Ori 
ent,  where  dogs  have  been  granted  immunity 
from  other  labor  on  the  condition  that  they  or 
ganized  an  effective  street-cleaning  department, 
they  have  been  false  to  their  trust  and  have  evaded 
their  contracts  quite  as  if  they  were  Tammany 
braves,  like  whom  they  pass  their  days  in  slum 
ber  and  their  nights  in  settling  private  disputes, 
while  the  city  remains  uncleaned. 

I  nurse  yet  another  grudge  against  the  canine 
race !  That  Voltaire  of  a  whelp,  who  imposed  him 
self  upon  our  confiding  first  parents,  must  have 
had  an  important  pull  at  headquarters,  for  he 
certainly  succeeded  in  getting  the  decree  con 
cerning  beauty  and  fitness  which  applies  to  all 
mammals,  including  man  himself,  reversed  in 
favor  of  dogs,  and  handed  down  to  his  descend 
ants  the  secret  of  making  defects  and  deformities 


THE    W<ATS    OF 


pass  current  as  qualities.  While  other  animals 
are  valued  for  sleek  coats  and  slender  propor 
tions,  canine  monstrosities  have  always  been  in 
demand.  We  do  not  admire  squints  or  protrud 
ing  under  jaws  in  our  own  race,  yet  bulldogs 
have  persuaded  many  weak-minded  people  that 
these  defects  are  charming  when  combined  in  an 
individual  of  their  breed. 

The  fox  in  the  fable,  who  after  losing  his  tail 
tried  to  make  that  bereavement  the  fashion,  failed 
in  his  undertaking;  Dutch  canal-boat  dogs  have, 
however,  been  successful  where  the  fox  failed, 
and  are  to-day  pampered  and  prized  for  a  cur 
tailment  that  would  condemn  any  other  animal 
(except  perhaps  a  Manx  cat)  to  a  watery  grave 
at  birth. 

I  can  only  recall  two  instances  where  canine 
sycophants  got  their  deserts;  the  first  tale  (prob 
ably  apocryphal)  is  about  a  donkey,  for  years 
the  silent  victim  of  a  little  terrier  who  had  been 
trained  to  lead  him  to  water  and  back.  The  dog 
—  as  might  have  been  expected  —  abused  the 
situation,  while  pretending  to  be  very  kind  to  his 
charge,  never  allowed  him  to  roll  on  the  grass, 
as  he  would  have  liked,  or  drink  in  peace,  and 
harassed  the  poor  beast  in  many  other  ways,  get 
ting,  however,  much  credit  from  the  neighbors 
for  devotion  and  intelligence.  Finally,  one  day 
after  months  ofwaiting,  the  patient  victim's  chance 
came.  Getting  his  tormentor  well  out  into  deep 
water,  the  donkey  quietly  sat  down  on  him. 

[  i*] 


(DOMESTIC    <DESTOTS 

The  other  tale  is  true,  for  I  knew  the  lady  who 
provided  in  her  will  that  her  entire  establishment 
should  be  kept  up  for  the  comfort  and  during  the 
life  of  the  three  fat  spaniels  that  had  solaced  her 
declining  years.  The  heirs  tried  to  break  the  will 
and  failed;  the  delighted  domestics,  seeing  before 
them  a  period  of  repose,  proceeded  (headed  by 
the  portly  housekeeper)  to  consult  a  "vet"  as  to 
how  the  life  of  the  precious  legatees  might  be  pro 
longed  to  the  utmost.  His  advice  was  to  stop  all 
sweets  and  rich  food  and  give  each  of  the  animals 
at  least  three  hours  of  hard  exercise  a  day.  From 
that  moment  the  lazy  brutes  led  a  dog's  life. 
Water  and  the  detested  "  Spratt "  biscuit,  scorned 
in  happier  days,  formed  their  meagre  ordinary; 
instead  of  somnolent  airings  in  a  softly  cushioned 
landau  they  were  torn  from  chimney  corner  mus 
ings  to  be  raced  through  cold,  muddy  streets  by 
a  groom  on  horseback. 

Those  two  tales  give  me  the  keenest  pleasure. 
When  I  am  received  on  entering  a  friend's  room 
with  a  chorus  of  yelps  and  attacked  in  dark  cor 
ners  by  snarling  little  hypocrites  who  fawn  on  me 
in  their  master's  presence,  I  humbly  pray  that 
some  such  Nemesis  maybe  in  store  for  these  faux 
bonhommes  before  they  leave  this  world,  as  ap 
parently  no  provision  has  been  made  for  their 
punishment  in  the  next. 


N°-  3 

Cyrano^  Rostand^  Coquelin 


A[ONG  the  proverbs  of  Spanish  folk-lore 
there  is  a  saying  that  good  wine  retains 
its  flavor  in  spite  of  rude  bottles  and 
cracked  cups.  The  success  of  M.  Rostand's  bril 
liant  drama,  Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  in  its  English 
dress  proves  once  more  the  truth  of  this  adage. 
The  fun  and  pathos,  the  wit  and  satire,  of  the 
original  pierce  through  the  halting,  feeble  trans 
lation  like  light  through  a  ragged  curtain,  daz 
zling  the  spectators  and  setting  their  enthusiasm 
ablaze. 

Those  who  love  the  theatre  at  its  best,  when 
it  appeals  to  our  finer  instincts  and  moves  us  to 
healthy  laughter  and  tears,  owe  a  debt  of  grati 
tude  to  Richard  Mansfield  for  his  courage  in 
giving  us,  as  far  as  the  difference  of  language 
and  rhythm  would  allow,  this  chef  d*  cewure  un 
changed,  free  from  the  mutilations  of  the  adapter, 
with  the  author's  wishes  and  the  stage  decora 
tions  followed  into  the  smallest  detail.  In  this 
way  we  profit  by  the  vast  labor  and  study  which 
Rostand  and  Coquelin  gave  to  the  original  pro 
duction. 

Rumors  of  the  success  attained  by  this  play 
in  Paris  soon  floated  across  to  us.  The  two  or 
three  French  booksellers  here  could  not  import 
the  piece  fast  enough  to  meet  the  ever  increas- 

[  H] 


ing  demand  of  our  reading  public.  By  the  time 
spring  came,  there  were  few  cultivated  people 
who  had  not  read  the  new  work  and  discussed  its 
original  language  and  daring  treatment. 

On  arriving  in  Paris,  my  first  evening  was 
passed  at  the  Porte  St.  Martin.  After  the  piece 
was  over,  I  dropped  into  Coquelin's  dressing- 
room  to  shake  this  old  acquaintance  by  the 
hand  and  give  him  news  of  his  many  friends 
in  America. 

Coquelin  in  his  dressing-room  is  one  of  the 
most  delightful  of  mortals.  The  effort  of  play 
ing  sets  his  blood  in  motion  and  his  wit  spar 
kling.  He  seemed  as  fresh  and  gay  that  evening 
as  though  there  were  not  five  killing  acts  behind 
him  and  the  fatigue  of  a  two-hundred-night  run, 
uninterrupted  even  by  Sundays,  added  to  his 
"record." 

After  the  operation  of  removing  his  historic 
nose  had  been  performed  and  the  actor  had  re 
sumed  his  own  clothes  and  features,  we  got  into 
his  carriage  and  were  driven  to  his  apartment  in 
the  Place  de  1'Etoile,  a  cosy  museum  full  of 
comfortable  chairs  and  priceless  bric-a-brac.  The 
conversation  naturally  turned  during  supper  on 
the  piece  and  this  new  author  who  had  sprung 
in  a  night  from  obscurity  to  a  globe-embracing 
fame.  How,  I  asked,  did  you  come  across  the 
play,  and  what  decided  you  to  produce  it? 

Coquelin's  reply  was  so  interesting  that  it  will 
be  better  to  repeat  the  actor's  own  words  as  he 

[  -5] 


THE    W<ATS    OF 


told  his  tale  over  the  dismantled  table  in  the 
tranquil  midnight  hours. 

"I  had,  like  most  Parisians,  known  Rostand 
for  some  time  as  the  author  of  a  few  graceful 
verses  and  a  play  (  Les  Romanesques  )  which  passed 
almost  unnoticed  at  the  Fran^ais. 

"About  four  years  ago  Sarah  Bernhardt  asked 
me  to  her  c  hotel  '  to  hear  M.  Rostand  read  a  play 
he  had  just  completed  for  her.  I  accepted  reluc 
tantly,  as  at  that  moment  we  were  busy  at  the 
theatre.  I  also  doubted  if  there  could  be  much 
in  the  new  play  to  interest  me.  It  was  La  Prin- 
cesse  Lointaine.  I  shall  remember  that  afternoon 
as  long  as  I  live  !  From  the  first  line  my  atten 
tion  was  riveted  and  my  senses  were  charmed. 
What  struck  me  as  even  more  remarkable  than 
the  piece  was  the  masterly  power  and  finish  with 
which  the  boyish  author  delivered  his  lines. 
Where,  I  asked  myself,  had  he  learned  that  dif 
ficult  art?  The  great  aclress,  always  quick  to  re 
spond  to  the  voice  of  art,  accepted  the  play  then 
and  there. 

"After  the  reading  was  over  I  walked  home 
with  M.  Rostand,  and  had  a  long  talk  with  him 
about  his  work  and  ambitions.  When  we  parted 
at  his  door,  I  said:  'In  my  opinion,  you  are  des 
tined  to  become  the  greatest  dramatic  poet  of  the 
age;  I  bind  myself  here  and  now  to  take  any  play 
you  write  (in  which  there  is  a  part  for  me)  with 
out  reading  it,  to  cancel  any  engagements  I  may 
have  on  hand,  and  produce  your  piece  with  the 

[  16] 


least  possible  delay.'  An  offer  I  don't  imagine 
many  young  poets  have  ever  received,  and  which 
I  certainly  never  before  made  to  any  author. 

"About  six  weeks  later  my  new  acquaintance 
dropped  in  one  morning  to  read  me  the  sketch 
he  had  worked  out  for  a  drama,  the  title  role  of 
which  he  thought  would  please  me.  I  was  de 
lighted  with  the  idea,  and  told  him  to  go  ahead. 
A  month  later  we  met  in  the  street.  On  asking 
him  how  the  play  was  progressing,  to  my  aston 
ishment  he  answered  that  he  had  abandoned  that 
idea  and  hit  upon  something  entirely  different. 
Chance  had  thrown  in  his  way  an  old  volume  of 
Cyrano  de  Bergerac's  poems,  which  so  delighted 
him  that  he  had  been  reading  up  the  life  and 
death  of  that  unfortunate  poet.  From  this  read 
ing  had  sprung  the  idea  of  making  Cyrano  the 
central  figure  of  a  drama  laid  in  the  city  of  Riche 
lieu,  d'Artagnan,  and  the  Precieuses  Ridicules,  a 
seventeenth-century  Paris  of  love  and  duelling. 

"At  first  this  idea  struck  me  as  unfortunate. 
The  elder  Dumas  had  worked  that  vein  so  well 
and  so  completely,  I  doubted  if  any  literary  gold 
remained  for  another  author.  It  seemed  fool  hardy 
to  resuscitate  the  Three  Guardsmen  epoch — and 
I  doubted  if  it  were  possible  to  carry  out  his 
idea  and  play  an  intense  and  pathetic  role  dis 
guised  with  a  burlesque  nose. 

"This  contrasting  of  the  grotesque  and  the 
sentimental  was  of  course  not  new.  Victor  Hugo 
had  broken  away  from  classic  tradition  when  he 

[17] 


THE    WrfTS    OF 


made  a  hunchback  the  hero  of  a  drama.  There 
remained,  however,  the  risk  of  our  Parisian  pub 
lic  not  accepting  the  new  situation  seriously.  It 
seemed  to  me  like  bringing  the  sublime  peri 
lously  near  the  ridiculous. 

"  Fortunately,  Rostand  did  not  share  this  opin 
ion  or  my  doubts.  He  was  full  of  enthusiasm  for 
his  piece  and  confident  of  its  success.  We  sat 
where  we  had  met,  under  the  trees  of  the  Champs 
Elysees,  for  a  couple  of  hours,  turning  the  sub 
ject  about  and  looking  at  the  question  from  every 
point  of  view.  Before  we  parted  the  poet  had  con 
vinced  me.  The  role,  as  he  conceived  it,  was  cer 
tainly  original,  and  therefore  tempting,  opening 
vast  possibilities  before  my  dazzled  eyes. 

"I  found  out  later  that  Rostand  had  gone 
straight  home  after  that  conversation  and  worked 
for  nearly  twenty  hours  without  leaving  the  study, 
where  his  wife  found  him  at  daybreak,  fast  asleep 
with  his  head  on  a  pile  of  manuscript.  He  was  at 
my  rooms  the  next  day  before  I  was  up,  sitting 
on  the  side  of  my  bed,  reading  the  result  of  his 
labor.  As  the  story  unfolded  itself  I  was  more  and 
more  delighted.  His  idea  of  resuscitating  the 
quaint  interior  of  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne  Thea 
tre  was  original,  and  the  balcony  scene,  even  in 
outline,  enchanting.  After  the  reading  Rostand 
dashed  off  as  he  had  come,  and  for  many  weeks 
I  saw  no  more  of  him. 

"La  Princesse  Lointaine  was,  in  the  mean 
time,  produced  by  Sarah,  first  in  London  and  then 

[  18] 


in  Paris.  In  the  English  capital  it  was  a  failure; 
with  us  it  gained  a  succes  d'estime,  the  fantastic 
grace  and  lightness  of  the  piece  saving  it  from 
absolute  shipwreck  in  the  eyes  of  the  literary 
public. 

"Between  ourselves,"  continued  Coquelin, 
pushing  aside  his  plate,  a  twinkle  in  his  small 
eyes,  "is  the  reason  of  this  lack  of  success  very 
difficult  to  discover?  The  Princess  in  the  piece 
is  supposed  to  be  a  fairy  enchantress  in  her  six 
teenth  year.  The  play  turns  on  her  youth  and  in 
nocence.  Now,  honestly,  is  Sarah,  even  on  the 
stage,  any  one's  ideal  of  youth  and  innocence?" 
This  was  asked  so  naively  that  I  burst  into  a 
laugh,  in  which  my  host  joined  me.  Unfortu 
nately,  this  grandmamma,  like  Ellen  Terry,  can 
not  be  made  to  understand  that  there  are  roles 
she  should  leave  alone,  that  with  all  the  illusions 
the  stage  lends  she  can  no  longer  play  girlish  parts 
with  success. 

"The  failure  of  his  play  produced  the  most 
disastrous  effect  on  Rostand,  who  had  given  up  a 
year  of  his  life  to  its  composition  and  was  pro 
foundly  chagrined  by  its  fall.  He  sank  into  a  mild 
melancholy,  refusing  for  more  than  eighteen 
months  to  put  pen  to  paper.  On  the  rare  occa 
sions  when  we  met  I  urged  him  to  pull  himself 
together  and  rise  above  disappointment.  Little  by 
little,  his  friends  were  able  to  awaken  his  dormant 
interest  and  get  him  to  work  again  on  Cyrano. 
As  he  slowly  regained  confidence  and  began  tak- 

[  '9] 


THE    W^TS    OF 


ing  pleasure  once  more  in  his  work,  the  boyish 
author  took  to  dropping  in  on  me  at  impossible 
morning  hours  to  read  some  scene  hot  from  his 
ardent  brain.  When  seated  by  my  bedside,  he  de 
claimed  his  lines  until,  lit  at  his  flame,  I  would 
jump  out  of  bed,  and  wrapping  my  dressing- 
gown  hastily  around  me,  seize  the  manuscript 
out  of  his  hands,  and,  before  I  knew  it,  find  my 
self  addressing  imaginary  audiences,  poker  in 
hand,  in  lieu  of  a  sword,  with  any  hat  that  came 
to  hand  doing  duty  for  the  plumed  headgear  of 
our  hero.  Little  by  little,  line  upon  line,  the  mas 
terpiece  grew  under  his  hands.  My  career  as  an 
actor  has  thrown  me  in  with  many  forms  of  lit 
erary  industry  and  dogged  application,  but  the 
powerof  sustained  effort  and  untiring,  unflagging 
zeal  possessed  by  that  fragile  youth  surpassed 
anything  I  had  seen. 

"As  the  work  began  taking  form,  Rostand 
hired  a  place  in  the  country,  so  that  no  visitors 
or  invitations  might  tempt  him  away  from  his 
daily  toil.  Rich,  young,  handsome,  married  to  a 
woman  all  Paris  was  admiring,  with  every  door, 
social  or  Bohemian,  wide  open  before  his  birth 
and  talent,  he  voluntarily  shut  himself  up  for  over 
a  year  in  a  dismal  suburb,  allowing  no  amusement 
to  disturb  his  incessant  toil.  Mme.  Rostand  has 
since  told  me  that  at  one  time  she  seriously  feared 
for  his  reason  if  not  for  his  life,  as  he  averaged 
ten  hours  a  day  steady  work,  and  when  the  spell 
was  on  him  would  pass  night  after  night  at  his 

[20] 


study  table,  rewriting,  cutting,  modelling  his  play, 
never  contented,  always  striving  after  a  more  ex 
pressive  adjective,  a  more  harmonious  or  original 
rhyme,  casting  aside  a  month's  finished  work  with 
out  a  second  thought  when  he  judged  that  another 
form  expressed  his  idea  more  perfectly. 

"  That  no  success  is  cheaply  bought  I  have  long 
known ;  my  profession  above  all  others  is  calcu 
lated  to  teach  one  that  truth. 

"If  Rostand's  play  is  the  best  this  century  has 
produced,  and  our  greatest  critics  are  unanimous 
in  pronouncing  it  equal,  if  not  superior,  to  Vic 
tor  Hugo's  masterpieces,  the  young  author  has 
not  stolen  his  laurels,  but  gained  them  leaf  by 
leaf  during  endless  midnight  hours  of  brain- 
wringing  effort — a  price  that  few  in  a  generation 
would  be  willing  to  give  or  capable  of  giving  for 
fame.  The  labor  had  been  in  proportion  to  the 
success;  it  always  is !  I  doubt  if  there  is  one  word 
in  his  'duel'  ballad  that  has  not  been  changed 

j  •       r  f      •  & 

again  and  again  for  a  more  fitting  expression,  as 
one  might  assort  the  shades  of  a  mosaic  until  a 
harmonious  whole  is  produced.  I  have  there  in 
my  desk  whole  scenes  that  he  discarded  because 
they  were  not  essential  to  the  action  of  the  piece. 
They  will  probably  never  be  printed,  yet  are  as 
brilliant  and  cost  their  author  as  much  labor  as 
any  that  the  public  applauded  to-night. 

"As  our  rehearsals  proceeded  I  saw  another 
side  of  Rostand's  character;  the  energy  and  en 
durance  hidden  in  his  almost  effeminate  frame 

[«  1 


THE    JV^TS    OF 


astonished  us  all.  He  almost  lived  at  the  theatre, 
drilling  each  actor,  designing  each  costume,  or 
dering  the  setting  of  each  scene.  There  was  not 
a  dress  that  he  did  not  copy  from  some  old  print, 
or  a  passade  that  he  did  not  indicate  to  the  hum 
blest  member  of  the  troop.  The  marvellous  dic 
tion  that  I  had  noticed  during  the  reading  at 
Sarah's  served  him  now  and  gave  the  key  to 
the  entire  performance.  I  have  never  seen  him 
peevish  or  discouraged,  but  always  courteous  and 
cheerful  through  all  those  weary  weeks  of  repe 
tition,  when  even  the  most  enthusiastic  feel 
their  courage  oozing  away  under  the  awful  grind 
of  afternoon  and  evening  rehearsal,  the  latter 
beginning  at  midnight  after  the  regular  perfor 
mance  was  over. 

"The  news  was  somehow  spread  among  the 
theatre-loving  public  that  something  out  of  the 
ordinary  was  in  preparation.  The  papers  took  up 
the  tale  and  repeated  it  until  the  whole  capital  was 
keyed  up  to  concert  pitch.  The  opening  night 
was  eagerly  awaited  by  the  critics,  the  literary  and 
the  artistic  worlds.  When  the  curtain  rose  on  the 
first  act  there  was  the  emotion  of  a  great  event 
floating  in  the  air."  Here  Coquelin's  face  as 
sumed  an  intense  expression  I  had  rarely  seen 
there  before.  He  was  back  on  the  stage,  living 
over  again  the  glorious  hours  of  that  night's  tri 
umph.  His  breath  was  coming  quick  and  his  eyes 
aglow  with  the  memory  of  that  evening.  "Never, 
never  have  I  lived  through  such  an  evening. 


Victor  Hugo's  greatest  triumph,  the  first  night 
of  Hernani,  was  the  only  theatrical  event  that  can 
compare  to  it.  It,  however,  was  injured  by  the  en 
mity  of  a  clique  who  persistently  hissed  the  new 
play.  There  is  but  one  phrase  to  express  the 
enthusiasm  at  our  first  performance — une  salle 
en  delire  gives  some  idea  of  what  took  place.  As 
the  curtain  fell  on  each  succeeding  act  the  entire 
audience  would  rise  to  its  feet,  shouting  and  cheer 
ing  for  ten  minutes  at  a  time.  The  coulisse  and  the 
dressing-rooms  were  packed  by  the  critics  and  the 
author's  friends,  beside  themselves  with  delight. 
I  was  trembling  so  I  could  hardly  get  from  one 
costume  into  another,  and  had  to  refuse  my  door 
to  every  one.  Amid  all  this  confusion  Rostand 
alone  remained  cool  and  seemed  unconscious  of 
his  victory.  He  continued  quietly  giving  last  rec 
ommendations  to  the  figurants,  overseeing  the 
setting  of  the  scenes,  and  thanking  the  actors  as 
they  came  off  the  stage,  with  the  same  self-pos 
sessed  urbanity  he  had  shown  during  the  rehear 
sals.  Finally,  when  the  play  was  over,  and  we  had 
time  to  turn  and  look  for  him,  our  author  had 
disappeared,  having  quietly  driven  off  with  his 
wife  to  their  house  in  the  country,  from  which 
he  never  moved  for  a  week." 

It  struck  two  o'clock  as  Coquelin  ended.  The 
sleepless  city  had  at  last  gone  to  rest.  At  our  feet, 
as  we  stood  by  the  open  window,  the  great  square 
around  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  lay  silent  and  empty, 
its  vast  arch  rising  dimly  against  the  night  sky. 


THE    WrfYS    OF 


As  I  turned  to  go,  Coquelin  took  my  hand 
and  remarked,  smiling:  "Now  you  have  heard 
the  story  of  a  genius,  an  adtor,  and  a  masterpiece." 


T     v     v     v'   V*"    v     v"    v    "v   "v     v'  ^r   "v    "v   ^r    \f   V'  ^r    ^v     v     v    \/"  "v   Sr    'v'  Sr    "v  "V  ^r 

AP-  4 

Machine-made  Men 


A1ONG  the  commonplace  white  and  yel 
low  envelopes  that  compose  the  bulk  of 
one's  correspondence,  appear  from  time 
to  time  dainty  epistles  on  tinted  paper,  adorned 
with  crests  or  monograms.  "Ha  !  ha  !"  I  think 
when  one  of  these  appears,  "here  is  something 
worth  opening  !"  For  between  ourselves,  reader 
mine,  old  bachelors  love  to  receive  notes  from 
women.  It's  so  flattering  to  be  remembered  by 
the  dear  creatures,  and  recalls  the  time  when  life 
was  beginning,  and  poulets  in  feminine  writing 
suggested  such  delightful  possibilities. 

Only  this  morning  an  envelope  of  delicate 
Nile  green  caused  me  a  distinct  thrill  of  antici 
pation.  To  judge  by  appearances  it  could  contain 
nothing  less  attractive  than  a  declaration,  so,  tear 
ing  it  hurriedly  open,  I  read:  "Messrs.  Sparks 
&  Splithers  take  pleasure  in  calling  attention  to 
their  patent  suspenders  and  newest  designs  in 
reversible  paper  collars ! " 

Now,  if  that 's  not  enough  to  put  any  man  in 
a  bad  humor  for  twenty-four  hours,  I  should  like 
to  know  what  is?  Moreover,  I  have  "patents" 
in  horror,  experience  having  long  ago  revealed 
the  fact  that  a  patent  is  pretty  sure  to  be  only  a 
new  way  of  doing  fast  and  cheaply  something  that 
formerly  was  accomplished  slowly  and  well. 


THE    f^^rS    OF 


Few  people  stop  to  think  how  quickly  this 
land  of  ours  is  degenerating  into  a  paradise  of 
the  cheap  and  nasty,  but  allow  themselves  to  be 
heated  and  cooled  and  whirled  about  the  streets 
to  the  detriment  of  their  nerves  and  digestions, 
under  the  impression  that  they  are  enjoying  the 
benefits  of  modern  progress. 

So  complex  has  life  become  in  these  later  days 
that  the  very  beds  we  lie  on  and  the  meals  we  eat 
are  controlled  by  patents.  Every  garment  and 
piece  of  furniture  now  pays  a  "royalty"  to  some 
inventor,  from  the  hats  on  our  heads  to  the  car 
pets  under  foot,  which  latter  are  not  only  manu 
factured,  but  cleaned  and  shaken  by  machinery, 
and  (be  it  remarked  en  passant]  lose  their  nap  pre 
maturely  in  the  process.  To  satisfy  our  national 
love  of  the  new,  an  endless  and  nameless  variety 
of  trifles  appears  each  season,  so-called  labor  and 
time-saving  combinations,  that  enjoy  a  brief  hour 
of  vogue,  only  to  make  way  for  a  newer  series 
of  inventions. 

As  long  as  our  geniuses  confined  themselves 
to  making  life  one  long  and  breathless  scramble, 
it  was  bad  enough,  but  a  line  should  have  been 
drawn  where  meddling  with  the  sanctity  of  the 
toilet  began.  This,  alas  !  was  not  done.  Nothing 
has  remained  sacred  to  the  inventor.  In  conse 
quence,  the  average  up-to-date  American  is  a 
walking  collection  of  Yankee  notions,  an  inge 
nious  illusion,  made  up  of  patents,  requiring  as 
nice  adjustment  to  put  together  and  undo  as  a 

[*6  J 


<DE 


thirteenth-century  warrior,  and  carrying  hardly 
less  metal  about  his  person  than  a  Crusader  of 
old. 

There  are  a  number  of  haberdashery  shops  on 
Broadway  that  have  caused  me  to  waste  many 
precious  minutes  gazing  into  their  windows  and 
wondering  what  the  strange  instruments  of  steel 
and  elastic  could  be,  that  were  exhibited  along 
side  of  the  socks  and  ties.  The  uses  of  these  would, 
in  all  probability,  have  remained  wrapped  in  mys 
tery  but  for  the  experience  of  one  fateful  morn 
ing  (after  a  night  in  a  sleeping-car),  when  count 
less  hidden  things  were  made  clear,  as  I  sat,  an 
awe-struck  witness  to  my  fellow-passengers'  — 
toilets  ?  —  No  !  Getting  their  machinery  into  run 
ning  order  for  the  day,  would  be  a  more  correct 
expression. 

Originally,  "tags"  were  the  backbone  of  the 
toilet,  different  garments  being  held  together  by 
their  aid.  Later,  buttons  and  attendant  button 
holes  were  evolved,  now  replaced  by  the  devices 
used  in  composing  the  machine-made  man.  As 
far  as  I  could  see  (I  have  overcome  a  natural 
delicacy  in  making  my  discoveries  public,  be 
cause  it  seems  unfair  to  keep  all  this  information 
to  myself),  nothing  so  archaic  as  a  button-hole 
is  employed  at  the  present  time  by  our  patent- 
ridden  compatriots.  The  shirt,  for  instance, 
which  was  formerly  such  a  simple-minded  and 
straightforward  garment,  knowing  no  guile,  has 
become,  in  the  hands  of  the  inventors,  a  mere 


THE    tr^TS    OF 


pretence,  a  frail  scaffold,  on  which  an  elaborate 
superstructure  of  shams  is  erected. 

The  varieties  of  this  garment  that  one  sees  in 
the  shop  windows,  exposing  virgin  bosoms  to 
the  day,  are  not  what  they  seem  !  Those  very 
bosoms  are  fakes,  and  cannot  open,  being  instead 
pierced  by  eyelets,  into  which  bogus  studs  are 
fixed  by  machinery.  The  owner  is  obliged  to 
enter  into  those  deceptive  garments  surrepti 
tiously  from  the  rear,  by  stratagem,  as  it  were. 
Why  all  this  trouble,  one  asks,  for  no  apparent 
reason,  except  that  old-fashioned  shirts  opened 
in  front,  and  no  Yankee  will  wear  a  non-patented 
garment  —  if  he  can  help  it? 

There  was  not  a  single  accessory  to  the  toilet 
in  that  car  which  behaved  in  a  normal  way.  But 
tons  mostly  backed  into  place,  tail-end  foremost 
(like  horses  getting  between  shafts),  where  some 
hidden  mechanism  screwed  or  clinched  them  to 
their  moorings. 

Collars  and  cuffs  (integral  parts  of  the  primi 
tive  garment)  are  now  a  labyrinth,  in  which  all 
but  the  initiated  must  lose  themselves,  being 
double-decked,  detachable,  reversible,  and  made 
of  every  known  substance  except  linen.  The  cuff 
most  in  favor  can  be  worn  four  different  ways, 
and  is  attached  to  the  shirt  by  a  steel  instru 
ment  three  inches  long,  with  a  nipper  at  each 
end.  The  amount  of  white  visible  below  the  coat- 
sleeve  is  regulated  by  anothercontrivance,mostly 
of  elastic,  worn  further  up  the  arm,  around  the 

[    28    ] 


34  tACHINE-MtA'DE    JW  E  3^ 

biceps.  Modern  collars  are  retained  in  position 
by  a  system  of  screws  and  levers.  Socks  are  at 
tached  no  longer  with  the  old-fashioned  garter, 
but  by  aid  of  a  little  harness  similar  to  that  worn 
by  pug-dogs. 

One  traveller,  after  lacing  his  shoes,  adjusted 
a  contrivance  resembling  a  black  beetle  on  the 
knot  to  prevent  its  untying.  He  also  wore  "hy 
gienic  suspenders,"  a  discovery  of  great  impor 
tance  (over  three  thousand  patents  have  been 
taken  out  for  this  one  necessity  of  the  toilet!). 
This  brace  performs  several  tasks  at  the  same 
time,  such  as  holding  unmentionable  garments 
in  place,  keeping  the  wearer  erect,  and  providing 
a  night-key  guard.  It  is  also  said  to  cure  liver  and 
kidney  disease  by  means  of  an  arrangement  of 
pulleys  which  throw  the  strain  according  to  the 
wearer's  position — I  omit  the  rest  of  its  qualities ! 

The  watches  of  my  companions,!  noticed  with 
astonishment,  all  wore  India-rubber  ruffs  around 
their  necks.  Here  curiosity  getting  the  better  of 
discretion,  I  asked  what  purpose  that  invention 
served.  It  was  graciously  explained  to  me  how 
such  ruffs  prevented  theft.  They  were  so  made 
that  it  was  impossible  to  draw  your  watch  out  of 
a  pocket  unless  you  knew  the  trick,  which  struck 
me  as  a  mitigated  blessing.  In  fact,  the  idea  kept 
occurring  that  life  might  become  terribly  uncom 
fortable  under  these  complex  conditions  for  ab 
sent-minded  people. 

Pencils,  I  find,  are  no  longer  put  into  pockets 


THE    WdYS    OF 


or  slipped  behind  the  ear.  Every  commercial 
"gent"  wears  a  patent  on  his  chest,  where  his 
pen  and  pencil  nestle  in  a  coil  of  wire.  Eyeglasses 
are  not  allowed  to  dangle  aimlessly  about,  as  of 
old,  but  retire  with  a  snap  into  an  oval  box,  af 
ter  the  fashion  of  roller  shades.  Scarf-pins  have 
guards  screwed  on  from  behind,  and  undergar 
ments  —  but  here  modesty  stops  my  pen. 

Seeing  that  I  was  interested  in  their  make-up, 
several  travelling  agents  on  the  train  got  out  their 
boxes  and  showed  me  the  latest  artifices  that  could 
be  attached  to  the  person.  One  gentleman  pro 
duced  a  collection  of  rings  made  to  go  on  the  fin 
ger  with  a  spring,  like  bracelets,  an  arrangement, 
he  explained,  that  was  particularly  convenient  for 
people  afflicted  with  enlarged  joints! 

Another  tempted  me  with  what  he  called  a 
"literary  shirt  front,"  —  it  was  in  fact  a  paper 
pad,  from  which  for  cleanliness  a  leaf  could  be 
peeled  each  morning;  the  "wrong"  side  of  the 
sheet  thus  removed  contained  a  calendar,  much 
useful  information,  and  the  chapters  of  a  "con 
tinued"  story,  which  ended  when  the  "dickey" 
was  used  up. 

A  third  traveller  was  "pushing"  a  collar-but 
ton  that  plied  as  many  trades  as  Figaro,  com 
bining  the  functions  of  cravat-holder,  stud,  and 
scarf-pin.  Not  being  successful  in  selling  me  one 
of  these,  he  brought  forward  something"  without 
which,"  he  assured  me,  "no  gentleman's  ward 
robe  was  complete"  !  It  proved  to  be  an  insidious 

[3°] 


arrangement  of  gilt  wire,  which  he  adjusted  on 
his  poor,  overworked  collar-button,  and  then  tied 
his  cravat  through  and  around  it.  "No  tie  thus 
made,"  he  said,  "would  ever  slip  or  get  crooked." 
He  had  been  so  civil  that  it  was  embarrassing 
not  to  buy  something  of  him ;  I  invested  twenty- 
five  cents  in  the  cravat-holder,  as  it  seemed  the 
least  complicated  of  the  patents  on  exhibition; 
not,  however,  having  graduated  in  a  school  of 
mechanics  I  have  never  been  able  to  make  it 
work.  It  takes  an  hour  to  tie  a  cravat  with  its 
aid,  and  as  long  to  get  it  untied.  Most  of  the 
men  in  that  car,  I  found,  got  around  the  diffi 
culty  by  wearing  ready-made  ties  which  fastened 
behind  with  a  clasp. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  the  reason  our  com 
patriots  have  such  a  strained  and  anxious  look  is 
because  they  are  all  trying  to  remember  the  num 
bers  of  their  streets  and  houses,  the  floor  their 
office  is  on,  and  the  combination  of  their  safes. 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  hunted  look  we 
wear  comes  from  an  awful  fear  of  forgetting  the 
secrets  of  our  patents  and  being  unable  to  undo 
ourselves  in  an  emergency! 

Think  for  a  moment  of  the  horror  of  coming 
home  tired  and  sleepy  after  a  convivial  evening, 
and  finding  that  some  of  your  hidden  machinery 
had  gone  wrong;  that  by  a  sudden  movement 
you  had  disturbed  the  nice  balance  of  some  lever 
which  in  revenge  refused  to  release  its  prey! 
The  inventors  of  one  well-known  cufF-holder 

[31  ] 


THE    f^^rS    OF 


claim  that  it  had  a  "bull-dog  grip."  Think  of 
sitting  dressed  all  night  in  the  embrace  of  that 
mechanical  canine  until  the  inventor  could  be 
called  in  to  set  you  free! 

I  never  doubted  that  bravery  was  the  lead 
ing  characteristic  of  the  American  temperament; 
since  that  glimpse  into  the  secret  composition  of 
my  compatriots,  admiration  has  been  vastly  in 
creased.  The  foolhardy  daring  it  must  require  — 
dressed  as  those  men  were  —  to  go  out  in  a  thun 
der-storm  makes  one  shudder:  it  certainly  could 
not  be  found  in  any  other  race.  The  danger  of 
cross-country  hunting  or  bull-fighting  is  as  noth 
ing  compared  to  the  risk  a  modern  American  takes 
when  he  sits  in  a  trolley-car,  where  the  chances 
of  his  machinery  forming  a  fatal  "short  circuit" 
must  be  immense.  The  utter  impossibility  in 
which  he  finds  himself  of  making  a  toilet  quickly 
on  account  of  so  many  time-saving  accessories 
must  increase  his  chances  of  getting  "left"  in  an 
accident  about  fifty  per  cent.  Who  but  one  of 
our  people  could  contemplate  with  equanimity 
the  thought  of  attempting  the  adjustment  of  such 
delicate  and  difficult  combinations  while  a  steamer 
was  sinking  and  the  life-boats  being  manned? 

Our  grandfathers  contributed  the  wooden  nut 
meg  to  civilization,  and  endowed  a  grateful  uni 
verse  with  other  money-saving  devices.  To-day 
the  inventor  takes  the  American  baby  from  his 
cradle  and  does  not  release  him  even  at  the 
grave.  What  a  treat  one  of  the  machine-made 

[3*] 


^fCHINE-M^tDE 


men  of  to-day  will  be  to  the  archaeologists  of  the 
year  3000,  when  they  chance  upon  a  well-pre 
served  specimen,  with  all  his  patents  thick  upon 
him  !  With  a  prophetic  eye  one  can  almost  see  the 
kindly  old  gentleman  of  that  day  studying  the 
paraphernalia  found  in  the  tomb  and  attempting 
to  account  for  the  different  pieces.  Ink  will  flow 
and  discussions  rage  between  the  camp  maintain 
ing  that  cuff-holders  were  tutelar  deities  buried 
with  the  dead  by  pious  relatives  and  the  group 
asserting  that  the  little  pieces  of  steel  were  a  form 
of  pocket  money  in  the  year  1900.  Both  will 
probably  misquote  Tennyson  and  Kipling  in 
support  of  their  theories. 

The  question  has  often  been  raised,  What 
side  of  our  nineteenth-century  civilization  will 
be  most  admired  by  future  generations?  In 
view  of  the  above  facls  there  can  remain  little 
doubt  that  when  the  secrets  of  the  paper  collar 
and  the  trouser-stretcher  have  become  lost  arts, 
it  will  be  those  benefits  that  remote  ages  will 
envy  us,  and  rare  specimens  of  "ventilated 
shoes"  and  "reversible  tissue-paper  undergar 
ments"  will  form  the  choicest  treasures  of  the 
collector. 


[33] 


N°-  5 

Parnassus 


MANY  years  ago,  a  gentleman  with  whom 
I  was  driving  in  a  distant  quarter  of 
Paris  took  me  to  a  house  on  the  rue 
Montparnasse,  where  we  remained  an  hour  or 
more,  he  chatting  with  its  owner,  and  I  listening 
to  their  conversation,  and  wondering  at  the  con 
fusion  of  books  in  the  big  room.  As  we  drove 
away,  my  companion  turned  to  me  and  said, 
"  Don't  forget  this  afternoon.  You  have  seen  one 
of  the  greatest  writers  our  century  has  produced, 
although  the  world  does  not  yet  realize  it.  You 
will  learn  to  love  his  works  when  you  are  older, 
and  it  will  be  a  satisfaction  to  remember  that  you 
saw  and  spoke  with  him  in  the  flesh  ! " 

When  I  returned  later  to  Paris  the  little  house 
had  changed  hands,  and  a  marble  tablet  stat 
ing  that  Sainte-Beuve  had  lived  and  died  there 
adorned  its  facade.  My  student  footsteps  took 
me  many  times  through  that  quiet  street,  but 
never  without  a  vision  of  the  poet-critic  flashing 
back,  as  I  glanced  up  at  the  window  where  he 
had  stood  and  talked  with  us ;  as  my  friend  pre 
dicted,  Sainte-Beuve's  writings  had  become  a 
precious  part  of  my  small  library,  the  memory 
of  his  genial  face  adding  a  vivid  interest  to  their 
perusal. 

[34] 


I  made  a  little  pilgrimage  recently  to  the  quiet 
old  garden  where,  after  many  years'  delay,  a  bust 
of  this  writer  has  been  unveiled,  with  the  same 
companion,  now  very  old,  who  thirty  years  ago 
presented  me  to  the  original. 

There  is,  perhaps,  in  all  Paris  no  more  ex 
quisite  corner  than  the  Garden  of  the  Luxem 
bourg.  At  every  season  it  is  beautiful.  The  winter 
sunlight  seems  to  linger  on  its  stately  Italian  ter 
races  after  it  has  ceased  to  shine  elsewhere.  The 
first  lilacs  bloom  here  in  the  spring,  and  when 
midsummer  has  turned  all  the  rest  of  Paris  into 
a  blazing,  white  wilderness,  these  gardens  remain 
cool  and  tranquil  in  the  heart  of  turbulent  "  Bo 
hemia,"  a  bit  of  fragrant  nature  filled  with  the 
song  of  birds  and  the  voices  of  children.  Surely 
it  was  a  gracious  inspiration  that  selected  this 
shady  park  as  the  "Poets'  Corner"  of  great, 
new  Paris.  Henri  Murger,  Leconte  de  Lisle, 
Theodore  de  Banville,  Paul  Verlaine,  are  here, 
and  now  Sainte-Beuve  has  come  back  to  his  fa 
vorite  haunt.  Like  Francois  Coppee  and  Victor 
Hugo,  he  loved  these  historic  allees^  and  knew 
every  stone  in  them  as  he  knew  the  "  Latin 
Quarter,"  for  his  life  was  passed  between  the 
bookstalls  of  the  quays  and. the  outlying  street 
where  he  lived. 

As  we  sat  resting  in  the  shade,  my  companion, 
who  had  been  one  of  Sainte-Beuve's  pupils,  fell 
to  talking  of  his  master,  his  memory  refreshed  by 
the  familiar  surroundings.  "  Can  anything  be  sad- 

[35] 


THE  ir^rs  OF 


der,"  he  said,  "than  finding  a  face  one  has  loved 
turned  into  stone,  or  names  that  were  the  watch 
words  of  one's  youth  serving  as  signs  at  street 
corners  —  la  rue  Flaubert  or  Theodore  de  Ban- 
ville?  How  far  away  they  make  the  past  seem! 
Poor  Sainte-Beuve,  that  bust  yonder  is  but  a  poor 
reward  for  a  life  of  toil,  a  modest  tribute  to  his  en 
cyclopaedic  brain  !  H  is  works,  however,  are  his  best 
monument  ;  he  would  be  the  last  to  repine  or  cavil. 

"The  literary  world  of  my  day  had  two  poles, 
between  which  it  vibrated.  The  little  house  in 
the  rue  Montparnasse  was  one,  the  rock  of 
Guernsey  the  other.  We  spoke  with  awe  of 
'Father  Hugo'  and  mentioned  'Uncle  Beuve' 
with  tenderness.  The  Goncourt  brothers  accepted 
Sainte-Beuve's  judgment  on  their  work  as  thever- 
dicl:  of  a  'Supreme  Court.'  Not  a  poet  or  author 
of  that  day  but  climbed  with  a  beating  heart  the 
narrow  staircase  that  led  to  the  great  writer's  li 
brary.  Paul  Verlaine  regarded  as  his  literary  di 
ploma  a  letter  from  this  'Balzac  de  la  critique.' 

"At  the  entrance  of  the  quaint  Passage  du 
Commerce,  under  the  arch  that  leads  into  the  rue 
Saint-Andre-des-Arts,  stands  a  hotel,  where  for 
years  Sainte-Beuve  came  daily  to  work  (away  from 
the  importunate  who  besieged  his  dwelling)  in  a 
room  hired  under  the  assumed  name  of  Delorme. 
It  was  there  that  we  sent  him  a  basket  of  fruit  one 
morning  addressed  to  Mr.  Delorme,  ne  Sainte- 
Beuve.  It  was  there  that  most  of  his  enormous 
labor  was  accomplished. 

[36] 


"A  curious  corner  of  old  Paris  that  Cour  du 
Commerce!  Just  opposite  his  window  was  the 
apartment  where  Danton  lived.  If  one  chose  to 
seek  for  them  it  would  not  be  hard  to  discover 
on  the  pavement  of  this  same  passage  the  marks 
made  by  a  young  doctor  in  decapitating  sheep 
with  his  newly  invented  machine.  The  doctor's 
name  was  Guillotin. 

"The  great  critic  loved  these  old  quarters  filled 
with  history.  He  was  fond  of  explaining  that 
Montparnasse  had  been  a  hill  where  the  students 
of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  came 
to  amuse  themselves.  In  1761  the  slope  was  lev 
elled  and  the  boulevard  laid  out,  but  the  name 
was  predestined,  he  would  declare,  for  the  habi 
tation  of  the  *  Parnassiens.' 

"His  enemies  pretended  that  you  had  but  to 
mention  Michelet,  Balzac,  and  Victor  Hugo  to 
see  Sainte-Beuve  in  three  degrees  of  rage.  He 
had,  it  is  true,  distinct  expressions  on  hearing 
those  authors  discussed.  The  phrase  then  much 
used  in  speaking  of  an  original  personality,  'He 
is  like  a  character  out  of  Balzac,'  always  threw 
my  master  into  a  temper.  I  cannot  remember, 
however,  having  seen  him  in  one  of  those  famous 
rages  which  made  Barbey  d'Aurevilly  say  that 
c  Sainte-Beuve  was  a  clever  man  with  the  temper 
of  a  turkey?'  The  former  was  much  nearer  the 
truth  when  he  calkd  the  author  of  Les  Lundis  a 
French  Wordsworth,  or  compared  him  to  a  lay 
benedittin.  He  had  a  way  of  reading  a  newly  ac- 

[37] 


THE    ir<rfrS    OF 


quired  volume  as  he  walked  through  the  streets 
that  was  typical  of  his  life.  My  master  was  always 
studying  and  always  advancing. 

"He  never  entirely  recovered  from  his  morti 
fication  at  being  hissed  by  the  students  on  the  oc 
casion  of  his  first  lecture  at  the  College  de  France. 
Returning  home  he  loaded  two  pistols,  one  for 
the  first  student  who  should  again  insult  him, 
and  the  other  to  blow  out  his  own  brains.  It  was 
no  idle  threat.  The  man  Guizot  had  nicknamed 
'  Werther'  was  capable  of  executing  his  plan,  for 
this  causeless  unpopularity  was  anguish  to  him. 
After  his  death,  I  found  those  two  pistols  loaded 
in  his  bedroom,  but  justice  had  been  done  another 
way.  All  opposition  had  vanished.  Every  student 
in  the  'Quarter'  followed  the  modest  funeral  of 
their  Senator,  who  had  become  the  champion  of 
literary  liberty  in  an  epoch  when  poetry  was  held 
in  chains. 

"  The  Empire  which  made  him  Senator  gained, 
however,  but  an  indocile  recruit.  On  his  one  visit 
to  Compiegne  in  1863,  the  Emperor,  wishing  to 
be  particularly  gracious,  said  to  him,  <I  always 
read  the  Moniteur  on  Monday,  when  your  arti 
cle  appears.'  Unfortunately  for  this  compliment, 
it  was  the  Constitutionnel  that  had  been  publishing 
the  Nouveaux  Lundis  for  more  than  four  years. 
In  spite  of  the  united  efforts  of  his  friends,  Sainte- 
Beuve  could  not  be  brought  to  the  point  of  com 
plimenting  Napoleon  III.  on  his  Life  of  C<esar. 

"The  author  of  Les   Consolations  remained 

[38] 


SUS 


through  life  the  proudest  and  most  indepen 
dent  of  men,  a  bourgeois,  enemy  of  all  tyranny, 
asking  protection  of  no  one.  And  what  a  worker! 
Reading,  sifting,  studying,  analyzing  his  subject 
before  composing  one  of  his  famous  Lundis,  a  lit 
erary  portrait  which  he  aimed  at  making  complete 
and  final.  One  of  these  articles  cost  him  as  much 
labor  as  other  authors  give  to  the  composition  of 
a  volume. 

"  By  way  of  amusement  on  Sunday  evenings, 
when  work  was  temporarily  laid  aside,  he  loved 
the  theatre,  delighting  in  every  kind  of  play, 
from  the  broad  farces  of  the  Palais  Royal  to  the 
tragedies  of  Racine,  and  entertaining  comedians 
in  order,  as  he  said,  'to  keep  young' !  One  even 
ing  Theophile  Gautier  brought  a  pretty  actress 
to  dinner.  Sainte-Beuve,  who  was  past-master  in 
the  difficult  art  of  conversation,  and  on  whom 
a  fair  woman  acted  as  an  inspiration,  surpassed 
himself  on  this  occasion,  surprising  even  theGon- 
courts  with  his  knowledge  of  the  eighteenth  cen 
tury  and  the  women  of  that  time,  Mme.  de  Bouf- 
flers,  Mile,  de  Lespinasse,  la  Marechale  de  Lux 
embourg.  The  hours  flew  by  unheeded  by  all  of 
his  guests  but  one.  The  debutante  was  overheard 
confiding,  later  in  the  evening,  to  a  friend  at  the 
Gymnase,  where  she  performed  in  the  last  act, 
'Ouf !  I  'm  glad  to  get  here.  I  Ve  been  dining 
with  a  stupid  old  Senator.  They  told  me  he  would 
be  amusing,  but  I  Ve  been  bored  to  death.'  Which 
reminded  me  of  my  one  visit  to  England,  when 

[39] 


THE    W^TS    OF 


I  heard  a  young  nobleman  declare  that  he  had 
been  to  'such  a  dull  dinner  to  meet  a  duffer  called 
"Kenan!"' 

"Sainte-Beuve's  Larmes  de  Racine  was  given 
at  the  Theatre  Fran^ais  during  its  author's  last 
illness.  His  disappointment  at  not  seeing  the 
performance  was  so  keen  that  M.  Thierry,  then 
administrateur  of  La  Comedie,  took  Mile.  Favart 
to  the  rue  Montparnasse,  that  she  might  recite 
his  verses  to  the  dying  writer.  When  the  aclress, 
then  in  the  zenith  of  her  fame  and  beauty,  came 
to  the  lines  — 

Jean  Racine,  le  grand  poete, 
L,e  poete  aimant  et  pieux, 
Aprh  que  sa  lyre  muette 
Se  fut  voille  a  tous  les  yeux, 
Renon^ant  a  la  glolre  humaine, 
S'il  sentait  en  son  ame  plelne 
Le  flat  contenu  murmur  er, 
Ne  savait  que  fondre  en  priere, 
Pencher  l^urne  dam  la  poussiere 
Aux  pleds  du  Seigneur,  et  pleurer! 

the  tears  of  Sainte-Beuve  accompanied  those  of 
Racine!" 

There  were  tears  also  in  the  eyes  my  com 
panion  turned  toward  me  as  he  concluded.  The 
sun  had  set  while  he  had  been  speaking.  The 
marble  of  the  statues  gleamed  white  against  the 
shadows  of  the  sombre  old  garden.  The  guardians 
were  closing  the  gates  and  warning  the  lingering 
visitors  as  we  strolled  toward  the  entrance. 

It  seemed  as  if  we  had  been  for  an  hour  in  the 

[40] 


S  SUS 


presence  of  the  portly  critic;  and  the  circle  of  bril 
liant  men  and  witty  women  who  surrounded  him 
—  Flaubert,  Tourgueneff,  Theophile  Gautier, 
Renan,  George  Sand — were  realities  at  that  mo 
ment,  not  abstractions  with  great  names.  It  was 
like  returning  from  another  age,  to  step  out  again 
into  the  glare  and  bustle  of  the  Boulevard  St. 
Michel. 


[41] 


N°-  6 

Modern  Architecture 


IF  a  foreign  tourist,  ignorant  of  his  where 
abouts,  were  to  sail  about  sunset  up  our 
spacious  bay  and  view  for  the  first  time  the 
eccentric  sky-line  of  lower  New  York,  he  would 
rub  his  eyes  and  wonder  if  they  were  not  play 
ing  him  a  trick,  for  distance  and  twilight  lend  the 
chaotic  masses  around  the  Battery  a  certain  wild 
grace  suggestive  of  Titan  strongholds  or  prehis 
toric  abodes  of  Wotan,  rather  than  the  business 
part  of  a  practical  modern  city. 

"But,"  as  John  Drew  used  to  say  in  The 
Masked  Ball,  "what  a  difference  in  the  morn 
ing!"  when  a  visit  to  his  banker  takes  the  new 
arrival  down  to  Wall  Street,  and  our  uncompro 
mising  American  daylight  dispels  his  illusions. 

Years  ago  spirituel  Arthur  Gilman  mourned 
over  the  decay  of  architecture  in  New  York  and 
pointed  out  that  Stewart's  shop,  at  Tenth  Street, 
bore  about  the  same  relation  to  Ictinus'  noble 
art  as  an  iron  cooking-stove!  It  is  well  death  re 
moved  the  Boston  critic  before  our  city  entered 
into  its  present  Brobdingnagian  phase.  If  he  con 
sidered  that  Stewart's  and  the  Fifth  Avenue  Ho 
tel  failed  in  artistic  beauty,  what  would  have  been 
his  opinion  of  the  graceless  piles  that  crowd  our 
island  to-day,  beside  which  those  older  buildings 
seem  almost  classical  in  their  simplicity? 

[42] 


One  hardly  dares  to  think  what  impression  a 
student  familiar  with  the  symmetry  of  Old  World 
structures  must  receive  on  arriving  for  the  first 
time,  let  us  say,  at  the  Bowling  Green,  for  the 
truth  would  then  dawn  upon  him  that  what  ap 
peared  from  a  distance  to  be  the  ground  level 
of  the  island  was  in  reality  the  roof  line  of  average 
four-story  buildings,  from  among  which  the  keeps 
and  campaniles  that  had  so  pleased  him  (when 
viewed  from  the  Narrows)  rise  like  giganticweeds 
gone  to  seed  in  a  field  of  grass. 

It  is  the  heterogeneous  character  of  the  build 
ings  down  town  that  renders  our  streets  so  hid 
eous.  Far  from  seeking  harmony,  builders  seem 
to  be  trying  to  "go"  each  other  "one  story  bet 
ter";  if  they  can  belittle  a  neighbor  in  the  pro 
cess  it  is  clear  gain,  and  so  much  advertisement. 
Certain  blocks  on  lower  Broadway  are  gems  in 
this  way !  Any  one  who  has  glanced  at  an  auction 
eer's  shelves  when  a  "job  lot"  of  books  is  being 
sold,  will  doubtless  have  noticed  their  resem 
blance  to  the  sidewalks  of  our  down  town  streets. 
Dainty  little  duodecimo  buildings  are  squeezed 
in  between  towering  in-folios,  and  richly  bound 
and  tooled  octavos  chum  with  cheap  editions. 
Our  careless  City  Fathers  have  not  even  given 
themselves  the  trouble  of  pushing  their  stone 
and  brick  volumes  into  the  same  line,  but  allow 
them  to  straggle  along  the  shelf — I  beg  par 
don,  the  sidewalk — according  to  their  own  sweet 
will. 

[43] 


THE    f^^TS    OF 


The  resemblance  of  most  new  business  build 
ings  to  flashy  books  increases  the  more  one  stud 
ies  them;  they  have  the  proportions  of  school  at 
lases,  and,  like  them,  are  adorned  only  on  their 
backs  (read  fronts).  The  modern  builder,  like 
the  frugal  binder,  leaves  the  sides  of  his  crea 
tions  unadorned,  and  expends  his  ingenuity  in 
decorating  the  narrow  strip  which  he  naively  im 
agines  will  be  the  only  part  seen,  calmly  ignoring 
the  fact  that  on  glancing  up  or  down  a  street  the 
sides  of  houses  are  what  we  see  first.  It  is  almost 
impossible  to  get  mathematically  opposite  a 
building,  yet  that  is  the  only  point  from  which 
these  new  constructions  are  not  grotesque. 

It  seems  as  though  the  rudiments  of  common 
sense  would  suggest  that  under  existing  circum 
stances  the  less  decoration  put  on  a  facade  the 
greater  would  be  the  harmony  of  the  whole.  But 
trifles  like  harmony  and  fitness  are  splendidly  ig 
nored  by  the  architects  of  to-day,  who,  be  it  re 
marked  in  passing,  have  slipped  into  another  cu 
rious  habit  for  which  I  should  greatly  like  to  see  an 
explanation  offered.  As  long  as  the  ground  floors 
and  the  tops  of  their  creations  are  elaborate,  the 
designer  evidently  thinks  the  intervening  twelve 
or  fifteen  stories  can  shift  for  themselves.  One 
clumsy  mass  on  the  Bowling  Green  is  an  excel 
lent  example  of  this  weakness.  Its  ground  floor 
is  a  playful  reproduction  of  the  tombs  of  Egypt. 
About  the  second  story  the  architect  must  have 
become  discouraged  —  or  perhaps  the  owner's 

[44] 


funds  gave  out — for  the  next  dozen  floors  are 
treated  in  the  severest  "tenement  house"  man 
ner;  then,  as  his  building  terminates  well  up  in  the 
sky,  a  top  floor  or  two  are,  for  no  apparent  reason, 
elaborately  adorned.  Indeed,  this  desire  for  a  bril 
liant  finish  pervades  the  neighborhood.  The  John 
son  Building  on  Broad  Street  (to  choose  one  out 
of  the  many)  is  sober  and  discreet  in  design  for 
a  dozen  stories,  but  bursts  at  its  top  into  a  By 
zantine  colonnade.  Why?  one  asks  in  wonder. 

Another  new-comer,  corner  of  Wall  and  Nas 
sau  Streets,  is  a  commonplace  structure,  with  a 
fairly  good  cornice,  on  top  of  which — an  after 
thought,  probably — a  miniature  State  Capitol 
has  been  added,  with  dome  and  colonnade  com 
plete.  The  result  recalls  dear,  absent-minded 
Miss  Matty  (in  Mrs.  Gaskell's  charming  story), 
when  she  put  her  best  cap  on  top  of  an  old  one 
and  sat  smiling  at  her  visitors  from  under  the 
double  headdress! 

Nowhere  in  the  world- — not  even  in  Moscow, 
that  city  of  domes — can  one  see  such  a  collec 
tion  of  pagodas,  cupolas,  kiosks,  and  turrets  as 
grace  the  roofs  of  our  office  buildings!  Archi 
tects  evidently  look  upon  such  adornments  as 
compensations!  The  more  hideous  the  structure, 
the  finer  its  dome!  Having  perpetrated  a  blot 
upon  the  city  that  cries  to  heaven  in  its  enor 
mity,  the  repentant  owner  adds  a  pagoda  or  two, 
much  in  the  same  spirit,  doubtless,  as  prompts 
an  Italian  peasant  to  hang  a  votive  heart  on 

[45  ] 


THE    W<ATS    OF 


some  friendly  shrine  when  a  crime  lies  heavy  on 
his  conscience. 

What  would  be  thought  of  a  book-collector 
who  took  to  standing  inkstands  or  pepperboxes 
on  the  tops  of  his  tallest  volumes  by  way  of 
adornment?  Yet  domes  on  business  buildings 
are  every  bit  as  appropriate.  A  choice  collection 
of  those  monstrosities  graces  Park  Row,  one 
much-gilded  offender  varying  the  monotony  by 
looking  like  a  yellow  stopper  in  a  high-shoul 
dered  bottle!  How  modern  architects  with  the 
exquisite  City  Hall  before  them  could  have  wan 
dered  so  far  afield  in  their  search  for  the  original 
must  always  remain  a  mystery. 

When  a  tall,  thin  building  happens  to  stand 
on  a  corner,  the  likeness  to  an  atlas  is  replaced 
by  a  grotesque  resemblance  to  a  waffle  iron,  of 
which  one  structure  just  finished  on  Rector  Street 
skilfully  reproduces  the  lines.  The  rows  of  little 
windows  were  evidently  arranged  to  imitate  the 
indentations  on  that  humble  utensil,  and  the  ele 
vated  road  at  the  back  seems  in  this  case  to  do 
duty  as  the  handle.  Mrs.  Van  Rensselaer  tells 
us  in  her  delightful  Goede  Vrouvo  of  Mana-ha-ta 
that  waffle  irons  used  to  be  a  favorite  wedding 
present  among  the  Dutch  settlers  of  this  island, 
and  were  adorned  with  monograms  and  other 
devices,  so  perhaps  it  is  atavism  that  makes  us 
so  fond  of  this  form  in  building!  As,  however, 
no  careful  Hausfrau  would  have  stood  her  iron 
on  its  edge,  architects  should  hesitate  before 

[46  ] 


ARCHITECTURE 


placing  their  buildings  in  that  position,  as  the 
impression  of  instability  is  the  same  in  each  case. 

After  leaving  the  vicinity  of  the  City  Hall,  the 
tall  slabs  that  like  magnified  milestones  mark  the 
progress  of  Architecture  up  Broadway  become  a 
shade  less  objectionable,  although  one  meets 
some  strange  freaks  in  so-called  decoration  by 
the  way.  Why,  for  instance,  were  those  Titan  col 
umns  grouped  around  the  entrance  to  the  Amer 
ican  Surety  Company's  building?  They  do  not 
support  anything  (the  "business"  of  columns  in 
architecture)  except  some  rather  feeble  statuary, 
and  do  seriously  block  the  entrance.  Were  they 
added  with  the  idea  of  fitness?  That  can  hardly 
be,  for  a  portico  is  as  inappropriate  to  such  a  build 
ing  as  it  would  be  to  a  parlor  car,  and  almost  as 
inconvenient. 

Farther  up  town  our  attention  is  arrested  by 
another  misplaced  adornment.  What  purpose  can 
that  tomb  with  a  railing  round  it  serve  on  top  of 
the  New  York  Life  Insurance  building?  It  looks 
like  a  monument  in  Greenwood,  surmounted  by 
a  rat-trap,  but  no  one  is  interred  there,  and  ver 
min  can  hardly  be  troublesome  at  that  altitude. 

How  did  this  craze  for  decoration  originate? 
The  inhabitants  of  Florence  and  Athens  did  not 
consider  it  necessary.  There  must,  I  feel  sure,  be 
a  reason  for  its  use  in  this  city  ;  American  land 
lords  rarely  spend  money  without  a  purpose;  per 
haps  they  find  that  rococo  detail  draws  business 
and  inspires  confidence! 

[47  ] 


THE    WJtYS    OF 


I  should  like  to  ask  the  architects  of  New 
York  one  question:  Have  they  not  been  taught 
that  in  their  art,  as  in  every  other,  pretences  are 
vulgar,  that  things  should  be  what  they  seem? 
Then  why  do  they  continue  to  hide  steel  and  fire 
brick  cages  under  a  veneer  of  granite  six  inches 
thick,  causing  them  to  pose  as  solid  stone  build 
ings?  If  there  is  a  demand  for  tall,  light  struc 
tures,  why  not  build  them  simply  (as  bridges  are 
constructed),  and  not  add  a  poultice  of  bogus  col 
umns  and  zinc  cornices  that  serve  no  purpose 
and  deceive  no  one  ? 

Union  Square  possesses  blocks  out  of  which 
the  Jackson  and  Decker  buildings  spring  with 
a  noble  disregard  of  all  rules  and  a  delicious  in 
congruity  that  reminds  one  of  FalstafFs  corps  of 
ill-drilled  soldiers.  Madison  Square,  however,  is 
facile  princepSj  with  its  annex  to  the  Hoffman 
House,  a  building  which  would  make  the  for 
tune  of  any  dime  museum  that  could  fence  it  in 
and  show  it  for  a  fee!  Long  contemplation  of 
this  structure  from  my  study  window  has  printed 
every  comic  detail  on  my  brain.  It  starts  off  at 
the  ground  level  to  be  an  imitation  of  the  Doge's 
Palace  (a  neat  and  appropriate  idea  in  itself  for  a 
Broadway  shop).  At  the  second  story,  following 
the  usual  New  York  method,  it  reverts  to  a  de 
sign  suggestive  of  a  county  jail  (the  Palace  and 
the  Prison),  with  here  and  there  a  balcony  hung 
out,  emblematical,  doubtless,  of  the  inmates'  wash 
and  bedding.  At  the  ninth  floor  the  repentant 

[48] 


architect  adds  two  more  stories  in  memory  of  the 
Doge's  residence.  Have  you  ever  seen  an  accor 
dion  (concertina,  I  believe,  is  the  correcl  name) 
hanging  in  a  shop  window?  The  Twenty-fifth 
Street  Doge's  Palace  reminds  me  of  that  humble 
instrument.  The  wooden  part,  where  the  keys 
and  round  holes  are,  stands  on  the  sidewalk.  Then 
come  an  indefinite  number  of  pleats,  and  finally 
the  other  wooden  end  well  up  among  the  clouds. 
So  striking  is  this  resemblance  that  at  times  one 
expecls  to  hear  the  long-drawn  moans  peculiar  to 
the  concertina  issuing  from  those  portals.  Alas! 
even  the  most  original  designs  have  their  draw 
backs!  After  the  proprietor  of  the  Venetian  accor 
dion  had  got  his  instrument  well  drawn  out  and 
balanced  on  its  end,  he  perceived  that  it  dwarfed 
the  adjacent  buildings,  so  cast  about  in  his  mind 
for  a  scheme  to  add  height  and  dignity  to  the  rest 
of  the  block.  One  day  the  astonished  neighbor 
hood  saw  what  appeared  to  be  a  "roomy  subur 
ban  villa"  of  iron  rising  on  the  roof  of  the  old 
Hoffman  House.  The  result  suggests  a  small  man 
who,  being  obliged  to  walk  with  a  giant,  had  put 
on  a  hat  several  times  too  large  in  order  to  equal 
ize  their  heights ! 

Howastonished  Pericles  and  his  circle  of  archi 
tects  and  sculptors  would  be  could  they  stand  on 
the  corner  of  Broadway  and  Twenty-eighth  Street 
and  see  the  miniature  Parthenon  that  graces  the 
roof  of  a  pile  innocent  of  other  Greek  ornament? 
They  would  also  recognize  their  old  friends,  the 

[49] 


THE    WdYS    OF 


ladies  of  the  Erechtheum,  doing  duty  on  the  Re- 
veillon  Building  across  the  way,  pretending  to 
hold  up  a  cornice,  which,  being  in  proportion  to 
the  building,  is  several  hundred  times  too  big  for 
them  to  carry.  They  can't  be  seen  from  the  side 
walk,  —  the  street  is  too  narrow  for  that,  —  but 
such  trifles  don't  deter  builders  from  decorating 
when  the  fit  is  on  them.  Perhaps  this  one  got  his 
caryatides  at  a  bargain,  and  had  to  work  them  in 
somewhere;  so  it  is  not  fair  to  be  hard  on  him. 

If  ever  we  take  to  ballooning,  all  these  elaborate 
tops  may  add  materially  to  our  pleasure.  At  the 
present  moment  the  birds,  and  angels,  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  appreciate  the  effort.  I,  perhaps,  of  all  the 
inhabitants  of  the  city,  have  seen  those  ladies  face 
to  face,  when  I  have  gone  on  a  semi-monthly  visit 
to  my  roof  to  look  for  leaks  ! 

"It's  all  very  well  to  carp  and  cavil,"  many 
readers  will  say,  "but  'Idler'  forgets  that  our 
modern  architects  have  had  to  contend  with  dif 
ficulties  that  the  designers  of  other  ages  never 
faced,  demands  for  space  and  light  forcing  the 
nineteenth-century  builders  to  produce  structures 
which  they  know  are  neither  graceful  nor  in  pro 
portion!" 

If  my  readers  will  give  themselves  the  trouble 
to  glance  at  several  office  buildings  in  the  city, 
they  will  realize  that  the  problem  is  not  without 
a  solution.  In  almost  every  case  where  the  archi 
tect  has  refrained  from  useless  decoration  and 
stuck  to  simple  lines,  the  result,  if  not  beautiful, 

[  50] 


ARCHITECTURE 


has  at  least  been  inoffensive.  It  is  where  inappro 
priate  elaboration  is  added  that  taste  is  offended. 
Such  structures  as  the  Singer  building,  corner 
of  Liberty  Street  and  Broadway,  and  the  home 
of  Life,  in  Thirty-first  Street,  prove  that  beauty 
and  grace  of  facade  can  be  adapted  to  modern 
business  wants. 

Feeling  as  many  New  Yorkers  do  about  this 
defacing  of  what  might  have  been  the  most  beau 
tiful  of  modern  cities,  it  is  galling  to  be  called 
upon  to  admire  where  it  is  already  an  effort  to 
tolerate. 

A  sprightly  gentleman,  writing  recently  in  a 
scientific  weekly,  goes  into  ecstasies  of  admira 
tion  over  the  advantages  and  beauty  of  a  steel 
mastodon  on  Park  Row,  a  building  that  has  the 
proportions  of  a  carpenter's  plane  stood  on  end, 
decorated  here  and  there  with  balconies  and  a 
colonnade  perched  on  brackets  up  toward  its  fif 
teenth  story.  He  complacently  gives  us  its  weight 
and  height  as  compared  with  the  pyramids,  and 
numerous  other  details  as  to  floor  space  and  venti 
lation,  and  hints  in  conclusion  that  only  old  fogies 
and  dullards,  unable  to  keep  pace  with  the  times, 
fail  to  appreciate  the  charm  of  such  structures  in 
a  city.  One  of  the  "points"  this  writer  makes  is 
the  quantity  of  light  and  air  enjoyed  by  tenants, 
amusingly  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  at  least  three 
facades  of  each  tall  building  will  see  the  day  only 
so  long  as  the  proprietors  of  adjacent  land  are 
too  poor  or  too  busy  to  construct  similar  colossi  ! 

[51  ] 


THE    WtATS    OF    3W  E 


When  all  the  buildings  in  a  block  are  the  same 
height,  seven  eighths  of  the  rooms  in  each  will 
be  without  light  or  ventilation.  It's  rather  poor 
taste  to  brag  of  advantages  that  are  enjoyed  only 
through  the  generosity  of  one's  neighbors. 

Business  demands  may  force  us  to  bow  be 
fore  the  necessity  of  these  horrors,  but  it  certainly 
is  "rubbing  it  in"  to  ask  our  applause.  When 
the  Eiffel  Tower  was  in  course  of  construction, 
the  artists  and  literary  lights  of  Paris  raised  a 
tempest  of  protest.  One  wonders  why  so  little  of 
the  kind  has  been  done  here.  It  is  perhaps  rather 
late  in  the  day  to  suggest  reform,  yet  if  more 
New  Yorkers  would  interest  themselves  in  the 
work,  much  might  still  be  done  to  modify  and 
improve  our  metropolis. 

One  hears  with  satisfaction  that  a  group  of 
architects  have  lately  met  and  discussed  plans  for 
the  embellishment  of  our  neglected  city.  There 
is  a  certain  poetical  justice  in  the  proposition 
coming  from  those  who  have  worked  so  much 
of  the  harm.  Remorse  has  before  now  been 
known  to  produce  good  results.  The  United 
States  treasury  yearly  receives  large  sums  of 
"conscience  money." 


N°-  7 

Worldly  Color-Blindness 

MYRIADS  of  people  have  no  ear  for 
music  and  derive  but  little  pleasure 
from  sweet  sounds.  Strange  as  it  may 
appear,  many  gifted  and  sensitive  mortals  have 
been  unable  to  distinguish  one  note  from  another, 
Apollo's  harmonious  art  remaining  for  them,  as 
for  the  elder  Dumas,  only  an  "expensive  noise." 

Another  large  class  find  it  impossible  to  dis 
criminate  between  colors.  Men  afHicled  in  this 
way  have  even  become  painters  of  reputation.  I 
knew  one  of  the  latter,  who,  when  a  friend  com 
plimented  him  on  having  caught  the  exaft  shade 
of  a  pink  toilet  in  one  of  his  portraits,  answered, 
"Does  that  dress  look  pink  to  you?  I  thought 
it  was  green!"  and  yet  he  had  copied  what  he 
saw  correctly. 

Both  these  classes  are  to  be  pitied,  but  are  not 
the  cause  of  much  suffering  to  others.  It  is  an 
noying,  I  grant  you,  to  be  torn  asunder  in  a  colli 
sion,  because  red  and  green  lights  on  the  switches 
combined  into  a  pleasing  harmony  before  the 
brakeman's  eyes.  The  tone-deaf  gentleman  who 
insists  on  whistling  a  popular  melody  is  almost 
as  trying  as  the  lady  suffering  from  the  same 
weakness,  who  shouts, "  Ninon,  Ninon,  que  fais- 
tu  de  la  vie ! "  until  you  feel  impelled  to  cry, "  Que 
faites-vous,  madame,  with  the  key?" 

[53] 


THE    WtATS    OF    Jtf E 3^ 

Examinations  now  keep  daltonic  gentlemen 
out  oflocomotives,  and  ladies  who  have  lost  their 
"keys  "are  apt  to  find  their  friends'  pianos  closed. 
What  we  cannot  guard  against  is  a  variety  of 
the  genus  homo  which  suffers  from  "social  color 
blindness."  These  well-meaning  mortals  form  one 
of  the  hardest  trials  that  society  is  heir  to;  for 
the  disease  is  incurable,  and  as  it  is  almost  im 
possible  to  escape  from  them,  they  continue  to 
spread  dismay  and  confusion  along  their  path  to 
the  bitter  end. 

This  malady,  which,  as  far  as  I  know,  has  not 
been  diagnosed,  invades  all  circles,  and  is,  curi 
ously  enough,  rampant  among  well-born  and  ap 
parently  well-bred  people. 

Why  is  it  that  the  entertainments  at  certain 
houses  are  always  dull  failures,  while  across  the 
way  one  enjoys  such  agreeable  evenings  ?  Both 
hosts  are  gentlemen,  enjoying  about  the  same 
amount  of  "unearned  increment,"  yet  the  at 
mosphere  of  their  houses  is  radically  different. 
This  contrast  cannot  be  traced  to  the  dulness  or 
brilliancy  of  the  entertainer  and  his  wife.  Neither 
can  it  be  laid  at  the  door  of  inexperience,  for  the 
worst  offenders  are  often  old  hands  at  the  game. 

The  only  explanation  possible  is  that  the  own 
ers  of  houses  where  one  is  bored  are  socially  color 
blind,  as  cheerfully  unconscious  of  their  weakness 
as  the  keyless  lady  and  the  whistling  abomina 
tion. 

Since  increasing  wealth  has  made  entertaining 

[  54] 


COLOI^-'BLIN'DNESS 


general  and  lavish,  this  malady  has  become  more 
and  more  apparent,  until  one  is  tempted  to 
parody  Mme.  Roland's  dying  exclamation  and 
cry,  "Hospitality!  hospitality!  what  crimes  are 
committed  in  thy  name!" 

Entertaining  is  for  many  people  but  an  excuse 
for  ostentation.  Forothers  it  is  a  means  to  an  end; 
while  a  third  variety  apparently  keep  a  debit  and 
credit  account  with  their  acquaintances  —  in  books 
of  double  entry,  so  that  no  errors  may  occur  — 
and  issue  invitations  like  receipts,  only  in  return 
for  value  received. 

We  can  rarely  tell  what  is  passing  in  the  minds 
of  people  about  us.  Some  of  those  mentioned 
above  may  feel  a  vague  pleasure  when  their  rooms 
are  filled  with  a  chattering  crowd  of  more  or  less 
well-assorted  guests;  if  that  is  denied  them,  can 
find  consolation  for  the  outlay  in  an  indefinite 
sensation  of  having  performed  a  duty,  —  what 
duty,  or  to  whom,  they  would,  however,  find  it 
difficult  to  define. 

Let  the  novice  flee  from  the  allurements  of 
such  a  host.  Old  hands  know  him  and  have  got 
him  on  their  list,  escaping  when  escape  is  pos 
sible;  for  he  will  mate  the  green  youth  with 
the  red  frump,  or  like  a  premature  millennium 
force  the  lion  and  the  lamb  to  lie  down  together, 
and  imagine  he  has  given  unmixed  pleasure  to 
both. 

One  would  expect  that  great  worldly  lights 
might  learn  by  experience  how  fatal  bungled  enter- 

[55] 


THE    W^TS    OF 


tainments  can  be,  but  such  is  not  the  case.  Many 
well-intentioned  people  continue  sacrificing  their 
friends  on  the  altar  of  hospitality  year  after  year 
with  never  a  qualm  of  conscience  or  a  sensation 
of  pity  for  their  victims.  One  practical  lady  of  my 
acquaintance  asks  her  guests  alphabetically,  com 
mencing  the  season  and  the  first  leaf  of  her  visit 
ing  list  simultaneously  and  working  steadily  on 
through  both  to  "finis."  If  you  are  an  A,  you 
will  meet  only  A's  at  her  table,  with  perhaps  one 
or  two  B's  thrown  in  to  fill  up;  you  may  sit  next 
to  your  mother-in-law  for  all  the  hostess  cares. 
She  has  probably  never  heard  that  the  number 
of  guests  at  table  should  not  exceed  that  of  the 
muses;  or  if  by  any  chance  she  has  heard  it,  does 
not  care,  and  considers  such  a  rule  old-fashioned 
and  not  appropriate  to  our  improved  modern 
methods  of  entertaining. 

One  wonders  what  possible  satisfaction  a  host 
can  derive  from  providing  fifty  people  with  un 
wholesome  food  and  drink  at  a  fixed  date.  It  is  a 
physical  impossibility  for  him  to  have  more  than 
a  passing  word  with  his  guests,  and  ten  to  one  the 
unaccustomed  number  has  upset  the  internal  ar 
rangements  of  his  household,  so  that  the  dinner 
will,  in  consequence,  be  poor  and  the  service  de 
fective. 

A  side-light  on  this  question  came  to  me  re 
cently  when  an  exceedingly  frank  husband  con 
fided  to  a  circle  of  his  friends  at  the  club  the 
scheme  his  wife,  who,  though  on  pleasure  bent, 

[  56  ] 


COLO      -S  LINT)  NESS 


was  of  a  frugal  mind,  had  adopted  to  balance  her 
social  ledger. 

"As  we  dine  out  constantly  through  the  year," 
remarked  Benedict,  "some  return  is  necessary. 
So  we  wait  until  the  height  of  the  winter  season, 
when  everybody  is  engaged  two  weeks  in  advance, 
then  send  out  our  invitations  at  rather  short  no 
tice  for  two  or  three  consecutive  dinners.  You  'd  be 
surprised,"  he  remarked,  with  a  beaming  smile, 
"what  a  number  refuse;  last  winter  we  cancelled 
all  our  obligations  with  two  dinners,  the  flowers 
and  entrees  being  as  fresh  on  the  second  evening 
as  the  first  !  It  's  wonderful  !  "  he  remarked  in  con 
clusion,  "how  simple  entertaining  becomes  when 
one  knows  how!"  Which  reminded  me  of  an  in 
genious  youth  I  once  heard  telling  some  friends 
how  easy  he  had  found  it  to  write  the  book  he 
had  just  published.  After  his  departure  we  agreed 
that  if  he  found  it  so  easy  it  would  not  be  worth 
our  while  to  read  his  volume. 

Tender-hearted  people  generally  make  bad 
hosts.  They  have  a  way  of  collecting  the  morally 
lame,  halt,  and  blind  into  their  drawing-rooms 
that  gives  those  apartments  the  air  of  a  conva 
lescent  home.  The  moment  a  couple  have  placed 
themselves  beyond  the  social  pale,  these  purblind 
hosts  conceive  an  affection  for  and  lavish  hos 
pitality  upon  them.  If  such  a  host  has  been  for 
tunate  enough  to  get  together  a  circle  of  healthy 
people,  you  may  feel  confident  that  at  the  last 
moment  a  leper  will  be  introduced.  This  class  of 

[  57] 


THE    W<AT$    OF 


entertainers  fail  to  see  that  society  cannot  be  run 
on  a  philanthropic  basis,  and  so  insist  on  turn 
ing  their  salons  into  hospitals. 

It  would  take  too  long  to  enumerate  the  thou 
sand  idiosyncrasies  of  the  color-blind  ;  few,  how 
ever,  are  more  amusing  than  those  of  the  impul 
sive  gentlemen  who  invite  people  to  their  homes 
indiscriminately,  because  they  happen  to  feel  in 
a  good  humor  or  chance  to  be  seated  next  them 
at  another  house,  —  invitations  which  the  host 
regrets  half  an  hour  later,  and  would  willingly 
recall.  "I  can't  think  why  I  asked  the  So-and- 
sos  !  "  he  will  confide  to  you.  "  I  can't  abide  them  ; 
they  are  as  dull  as  the  dropsy  !  "  Many  years  ago 
in  Paris,  we  used  to  call  a  certain  hospitable  lady's 
invitations  "soup  tickets,"  so  little  individuality 
did  they  possess. 

The  subtle  laws  of  moral  precedence  are  diffi 
cult  reading  for  the  most  intelligent,  and  therefore 
remain  sealed  books  to  the  afflicted  mortals  men 
tioned  here.  The  delicate  tact  that,  with  no  ap 
parent  effort,  combines  congenial  elements  into 
a  delightful  whole  is  lacking  in  their  composition. 
The  nice  discrimination  that  presides  over  some 
households  is  replaced  by  a  jovial  indifference  to 
other  persons'  feelings  and  prejudices. 

The  idea  of  placing  pretty  Miss  Debutante 
next  young  Strongboys  instead  of  giving  her 
over  into  the  clutches  of  old  Mr.  Boremore  will 
never  enter  these  obtuse  entertainers'  heads,  any 
more  than  that  of  trying  to  keep  poor,  defence- 

[58] 


COLOl{j-<BLIN<DNESS 


less  Mrs.  Mouse  out  of  young  Tom  Cat's  claws. 

It  is  useless  to  enumerate  instances;  people 
have  suffered  too  severely  at  the  hands  of  care 
less  and  incompetent  hosts  not  to  know  pretty 
well  what  the  title  of  this  paper  means.  So  many 
of  us  have  come  away  from  fruitless  evenings, 
grinding  our  teeth,  and  vowing  never  to  enter 
those  doors  again  while  life  lasts,  that  the  time 
seems  ripe  for  a  protest. 

If  the  color-blind  would  only  refrain  from 
painting,  and  the  tone-deaf  not  insist  on  invit 
ing  one  to  their  concerts,  the  world  would  be  a 
much  more  agreeable  place.  If  people  would  only 
learn  what  they  can  and  what  they  can't  do,  and 
leave  the  latter  feats  alone,  a  vast  amount  of  un 
necessary  annoyance  would  be  avoided  and  the 
tiresome  old  grindstone  turn  to  a  more  cheerful 
tune. 


«f  ^f  ife  18?  ife  ife  18?  life  life  tife  A  iS?  tife  life  $<  life  life  A  life  A  life  A  A  life  A  life  life  life  A 

A^-  8 

Idling  in  Mid-ocean 

TO  those  fortunate  mortals  from  whom 
Poseidon  exafts  no  tribute  in  crossing 
his  broad  domain,  a  transatlantic  voyage 
must  afford  each  year  an  ever  new  delight.  The 
cares  and  worries  of  existence  fade  away  and  dis 
appear  in  company  with  the  land,  in  the  deep 
bosom  of  the  ocean  buried.  One  no  longer  feels 
like  the  bored  mortal  who  has  all  winter  turned 
the  millstone  of  work  and  pleasure,  but  seems  to 
have  transmigrated  into  a  new  body,  endowed 
with  a  ravenous  appetite  and  perfectly  fresh  sen 
sations. 

Perhaps  it  is  only  the  novelty  of  the  surround 
ings;  but  as  I  lie  somnolent  in  my  chair,  tucked 
into  a  corner  of  the  white  deck,  watching  the  jade- 
colored  water  rush  past  below,  and  the  sea-gulls 
circle  gayly  overhead,  thesummum  bonum  of  earthly 
contentment  seems  attained.  The  book  chosen 
with  care  remains  uncut;  the  sense  of  physical 
and  mental  rest  is  too  exquisite  to  be  broken  by 
any  effort,  even  the  reading  of  a  favorite  author. 

Drowsy  lapses  into  unconsciousness  obscure 
the  senses,  like  the  transparent  clouds  that  from 
time  to  time  dim  the  sunlight.  A  distant  bell 
in  the  wheel-house  chimes  the  lazy  half-hours. 
Groups  of  people  come  and  go  like  figures  on  a 
lantern-slide.  A  curiously  detached  feeling  makes 

[60] 


IT>LINg    7^    3W  IT)-OC 


the  scene  and  the  aclors  in  it  as  unreal  as  a  painted 
ship  manned  by  a  shadowy  crew.  The  inevitable 
child  tumbles  on  its  face  and  is  picked  up  shriek 
ing  by  tender  parents;  energetic  youths  organize 
games  of  skill  or  discover  whales  on  the  hori 
zon,  without  disturbing  one's  philosophic  calm. 

I  congratulate  myself  on  having  chosen  a  for 
eign  line.  For  a  week  at  least  no  familiar  name 
will  be  spoken,  no  accustomed  face  appear. 
The  galling  harness  of  routine  is  loosened;  one 
breathes  freely  again  conscious  of  the  unoccupied 
hours  in  perspective. 

The  welcome  summons  to  luncheon  comes  as 
a  pleasant  shock.  Is  it  possible  that  the  morning 
has  passed?  It  seems  to  have  but  commenced.  I 
rouse  myself  and  descend  to  the  cabin.  Toward 
the  end  of  the  meal  a  rubicund  Frenchman  oppo 
site  makes  the  startling  proposition  that  if  I  wish 
to  send  a  message  home  he  will  undertake  to 
have  it  delivered.  It  is  not  until  I  notice  the  little 
square  of  oiled  paper  he  is  holding  out  to  me 
that  I  understand  this  reference  to  the  "pigeon 
post"  with  which  the  Compagnie  Transatlan- 
tique  is  experimenting.  At  the  invitation  of  this 
new  acquaintance  I  ascend  to  the  upper  deck 
and  watch  his  birds  depart. 

The  tiny  bits  of  paper  on  which  we  have  writ 
ten  (post-card  fashion)  message  and  address  are 
rolled  two  or  three  together,  and  inserted  into  a 
piece  of  quill  less  than  two  inches  long,  which, 
however,  they  do  not  entirely  fill.  While  a  pigeon 

[  61  ] 


THE    WtATS    OF    ML  E 


is  held  by  one  man,  another  pushes  one  of  the 
bird's  tail-feathers  well  through  the  quill,  which 
is  then  fastened  in  its  place  by  two  minute  wooden 
wedges.  A  moment  later  the  pigeon  is  tossed  up 
into  the  air,  and  we  witness  the  working  of  that 
mysterious  instind:  which  all  our  modern  science 
leaves  unexplained.  After  a  turn  or  two  far  up  in 
the  clear  sky,  the  bird  gets  its  bearings  and  darts  off 
on  its  five-hundred-mile  journey  across  unknown 
seas  to  an  unseen  land  —  a  voyage  that  no  devia 
tion  or  loitering  will  lengthen,  and  only  fatigue 
or  accident  interrupt,  until  he  alights  at  his  cote. 

Five  of  these  willing  messengers  were  started 
the  first  day  out,  and  five  more  will  leave  to 
morrow,  poor  little  aerial  postmen,  almost  pre 
destined  to  destruction  (in  the  latter  case),  for 
we  shall  then  be  so  far  from  land  that  their  one 
chance  of  life  and  home  must  depend  on  finding 
some  friendly  mast  where  an  hour's  rest  may  be 
taken  before  the  bird  starts  again  on  his  journey. 

In  two  or  three  days,  according  to  the  weather, 
we  shall  begin  sending  French  pigeons  on  ahead 
of  us  toward  Havre.  The  gentleman  in  charge 
of  them  tells  me  that  his  wife  received  all  the 
messages  he  sent  to  her  during  his  westward  trip, 
the  birds  appearing  each  morning  at  her  window 
(where  she  was  in  the  habit  of  feeding  them)  with 
their  tidings  from  mid-ocean.  He  also  tells  me  that 
the  French  fleet  in  the  Mediterranean  recently  re 
ceived  messages  from  their  comrades  in  the  Baltic 
on  the  third  day  by  these  feathered  envoys. 

[62  ] 


It  is  hoped  that  in  future  ocean  steamers  will 
be  able  to  keep  up  communication  with  the  land 
at  least  four  out  of  the  seven  days  of  their  trips, 
so  that,  in  case  of  delay  or  accident,  their  exacT: 
position  and  circumstances  can  be  made  known 
at  headquarters.  It  is  a  pity,  the  originator  of  the 
scheme  remarked,  that  sea-gulls  are  such  hope 
less  vagabonds,  for  they  can  fly  much  greater 
distances  than  pigeons,  and  are  not  affecled  by 
dampness,  which  seriously  cripples  the  present 
messengers. 

Later  in  the  day  a  compatriot,  inspired  doubt 
less  by  the  morning's  experiment,  confided  to  me 
that  he  had  hit  on  "a  great  scheme,"  which  he 
intends  to  develop  on  arriving.  His  idea  is  to 
domesticate  families  of  porpoises  at  Havre  and 
New  York,  as  that  fish  passes  for  having  (like 
the  pigeon)  the  homing  instincl.  Ships  provided 
with  the  parent  fish  can  free  one  every  twenty- 
four  hours,  charged  with  the  morning's  mail.  The 
inventor  of  this  luminous  idea  has  already  de 
signed  the  letter-boxes  that  are  to  be  strapped  on 
the  fishes'  backs,  and  decided  on  a  neat  uniform 
for  his  postmen. 

It  is  amusing  during  the  first  days  "out"  to 
watch  the  people  whom  chance  has  thrown  to 
gether  into  such  close  quarters.  The  occult  power 
that  impels  a  pigeon  to  seek  its  kind  is  feeble  in 
comparison  with  the  faculty  that  travellers  de 
velop  under  these  circumstances  for  seeking  out 
congenial  spirits.  Twelve  hours  do  not  pass  be- 

[63  ] 


THE    W^TS    OF 


fore  affinities  draw  together;  what  was  apparently 
a  homogeneous  mass  has  by  that  time  grouped 
and  arranged  itself  into  three  or  four  distind: 
circles. 

The  "  sporty  "  gentlemen  in  loud  clothes  have 
united  in  the  bonds  of  friendship  with  the  trav 
elling  agents  and  have  chosen  the  smoking-room 
as  their  headquarters.  No  mellow  sunset  or  serene 
moonlight  will  tempt  these  comrades  from  the 
subtleties  of  poker;  the  pool  on  the  run  is  the 
event  of  their  day. 

A  portly  prima  donna  is  the  centre  of  another 
circle.  Her  wraps,  her  dogs,  her  admirers,  and 
her  brand-new  husband  (a  handsome  young  Hun 
garian  with  a  voice  like  two  Bacian  bulls)  fill  the 
sitting-room,  where  the  piano  gets  but  little  rest. 
Neither  sunshine  nor  soft  winds  can  draw  them 
to  the  deck.  Although  too  ill  for  the  regular 
meals,  this  group  eat  and  drink  during  fifteen  out 
of  the  twenty-four  hours. 

The  deck,  however,  is  not  deserted  ;  two  fash 
ionable  dressmakers  revel  there.  These  sociable 
ladies  asked  the  commissaire  at  the  start  "to  in 
troduce  all  the  young  unmarried  men  to  them," 
as  they  wanted  to  be  jolly.  They  have  a  numer 
ous  court  around  them,  and  champagne,  like  the 
conversation,  flows  freely.  These  ladies  have  al 
ready  become  expert  at  shuffleboard,  but  their 
"  sea  legs  "  are  not  so  good  as  might  be  expected, 
and  the  dames  require  to  be  caught  and  sup 
ported  by  their  admirers  at  each  moment  to  pre- 


I<DLINg 


vent  them  from  tripping  —  an  immense  joke,  to 
judge  by  the  peals  of  laughter  that  follow. 

The  American  wife  of  a  French  ambassador 
sits  on  the  captain's  right.  A  turn  of  the  diplo 
matic  wheel  is  taking  the  lady  to  Madrid,  where 
her  position  will  call  for  supreme  tacl  and  self-re 
straint.  One  feels  a  thrill  of  national  pride  on  look 
ing  at  her  high-bred  young  face  and  listening  as 
she  chats  in  French  and  Spanish,  and  wonders 
once  more  at  the  marvellous  faculty  our  women 
have  of  adapting  themselves  so  graciously  and  so 
naturally  to  difficult  positions,  which  the  women 
of  other  nations  rarely  fill  well  unless  born  to  the 
purple.  It  is  the  high  opinion  I  have  of  my  coun 
trywomen  that  has  made  me  cavil,  before  now, 
on  seeing  them  turned  into  elaborately  dressed 
nullities  by  foolish  and  too  adoring  husbands. 

The  voyage  is  wearing  itself  away.  Sunny  days 
are  succeeded  by  gray  mornings,  as  exquisite  in 
their  way,  when  one  can  feel  the  ship  fight  against 
contending  wind  and  wave,  and  shiver  under  the 
blows  received  in  a  struggle  which  dashes  the  salt 
spray  high  over  the  decks.  There  is  an  aroma  in 
the  air  then  that  breathes  new  life  into  jaded 
nerves,  and  stirs  the  drop  of  old  Norse  blood, 
dormant  in  most  American  veins,  into  quivering 
ecstasy.  One  dreams  of  throwing  off  the  trammels 
of  civilized  existence  and  returning  to  the  free  life 
of  older  days. 

But  here  is  Havre  glittering  in  the  distance 
against  her  background  of  chalk  cliffs.  People 


THE    f^^TS    OF 


come  on  deck  in  strangely  conventional  clothes 
and  with  demure  citified  airs.  Passengers  of  whose 
existence  you  were  unaware  suddenly  make  their 
appearance.  Two  friends  meet  near  me  for  the 
first  time.  "Hallo,  Jones!"  says  one  of  them, 
"are  you  crossing?" 

"Yes,"  answers  Jones,  "are  you?" 
The  company's  tug  has  come  alongside  by 
this  time,  bringing  its  budget  of  letters  and  tele 
grams.  The  brief  holiday  is  over.  With  a  sigh  one 
comes  back  to  the  positive  and  the  present,  and 
patiently  resumes  the  harness  of  life. 


[66] 


N°-  9 

"Climbers'''  in  England 

THE  expression  "Little  Englander," 
much  used  of  late  to  designate  an  in 
habitant  of  the  Mother  Isle  in  contra 
distinction  to  other  subjects  of  Her  Majesty,  ex 
presses  neatly  the  feeling  of  our  insular  cousins  not 
only  as  regards  ourselves,  but  also  the  position  af 
fected  toward  their  colonial  brothers  and  sisters. 

Have  you  ever  noticed  that  in  every  circle 
there  is  some  individual  assuming  to  do  things 
better  than  his  comrades  —  to  know  more,  dress 
better,  run  faster,  pronounce  more  correctly? 
Who,  unless  promptly  suppressed,  will  turn  the 
conversation  into  a  monologue  relating  to  his  own 
exploits  and  opinions.  To  differ  is  to  bring  down 
his  contempt  upon  your  devoted  head !  To  argue 
is  time  wasted! 

Human  nature  is,  however,  so  constituted  that 
a  man  of  this  type  mostly  succeeds  in  hypnotiz 
ing  his  hearers  into  sharing  his  estimate  of  him 
self,  and  impressing  upon  them  the  conviction 
that  he  is  a  rare  being  instead  of  a  commonplace 
mortal.  He  is  not  a  bad  sort  of  person  at  bottom, 
and  ready  to  do  one  a  friendly  turn — if  it  does 
not  entail  too  great  inconvenience.  In  short,  a 
good  fellow,  whose  principal  defect  is  the  pro 
found  conviction  that  he  was  born  superior  to 
the  rest  of  mankind. 


THE    W^rS    OF 


What  this  individual  is  to  his  environment, 
Englishmen  are  to  the  world  at  large.  It  is  the 
misfortune,  not  the  fault,  of  the  rest  of  the  hu 
man  race,  that  they  are  not  native  to  his  island  ; 
a  fad:,  by  the  way,  which  outsiders  are  rarely  al 
lowed  to  lose  sight  of,  as  it  entails  a  becoming 
modesty  on  their  part. 

Few  idiosyncrasies  get  more  quickly  on  Amer 
ican  nerves  or  are  further  from  our  hearty  atti 
tude  toward  strangers.  As  we  are  far  from  look 
ing  upon  wandering  Englishmen  with  suspicion, 
it  takes  us  some  time  to  realize  that  Americans 
who  cut  away  from  their  countrymen  and  settle 
far  from  home  are  regarded  with  distrust  and  re 
luctantly  received.  When  a  family  of  this  kind 
prepares  to  live  in  their  neighborhood,  Britons 
have  a  formula  of  three  questions  they  ask  them 
selves  concerning  the  new-comers:  "Whom  do 
they  know?  How  much  are  they  worth?"  and 
"What  amusement  (or  profit)  are  we  likely  to 
get  out  of  them  ?  "  If  the  answer  to  all  or  any  of 
the  three  queries  is  satisfactory,  my  lord  makes 
the  necessary  advances  and  becomes  an  agreeable, 
if  not  a  witty  or  original,  companion. 

Given  this  and  a  number  of  other  peculiarities, 
it  seems  curious  that  a  certain  class  of  Americans 
should  be  so  anxious  to  live  in  England.  What 
is  it  tempts  them?  It  cannot  be  the  climate,  for 
that  is  vile;  nor  the  city  of  London,  for  it  is  one 
of  the  ugliest  in  existence;  nor  their  "cuisine"  — 
for  although  we  are  not  good  cooks  ourselves,  we 
[68] 


"CLIMBERS" 


know  what  good  food  is  and  could  give  Britons 
points.  Neither  can  it  be  art,  nor  the  opera,  —  one 
finds  both  better  at  home  or  on  the  Continent 
than  in  England.  So  it  must  be  society,  and  here 
one's  wonder  deepens  ! 

When  I  hear  friends  just  back  from  a  stay 
over  there  enlarging  on  the  charms  of  "  country 
life,"  or  a  London  "season,"  I  look  attentively 
to  see  if  they  are  in  earnest,  so  incomparably  dull 
have  I  always  found  English  house  parties  or 
town  entertainments.  At  least  that  side  of  society 
which  the  climbing  stranger  mostly  affects.  Other 
circles  are  charming,  if  a  bit  slow,  and  the  "  Bo 
hemia"  and  semi-Bohemia  of  London  have  a 
delicate  flavor  of  their  own. 

County  society,  that  ideal  life  so  attractive  to 
American  readers  of  British  novels,  is,  taken  on 
the  whole,  the  most  insipid  existence  conceivable. 
The  women  lack  the  sparkle  and  charm  of  ours; 
the  men,  who  are  out  all  day  shooting  or  hunt 
ing,  according  to  the  season,  get  back  so  fagged 
that  if  they  do  not  actually  drop  asleep  at  the  din 
ner-table,  they  will  nap  immediately  after,  bright 
ening  only  when  the  ladies  have  retired,  when, 
with  evening  dress  changed  for  comfortable  smok 
ing  suits,  the  hunters  congregate  in  the  billiard- 
room  for  cigars  and  brandy  and  seltzer. 

A  particularly  agreeable  American  woman, 
whose  husband  insists  on  going  every  winter  to 
Melton-Mowbray  for  the  hunting,  was  describ 
ing  the  other  day  the  life  there  among  the  wo- 

[69] 


THE    J^^TS    OF 


men,  and  expressing  her  wonder  that  those  who 
did  not  hunt  could  refrain  from  blowing  out  their 
brains,  so  awful  was  the  dulness  and  monotony  ! 
She  had  ended  by  not  dining  out  at  all,  having 
discovered  that  the  conversation  never  by  any 
chance  deviated  far  from  the  knees  of  the  horses 
and  the  height  of  the  hedges  ! 

Which  reminds  one  of  Thackeray  relating  how 
he  had  longed  to  know  what  women  talked  about 
when  they  were  alone  after  dinner,  imagining  it  to 
be  on  mysterious  and  thrilling  subjects,  until  one 
evening  he  overheard  such  a  conversation  and 
found  it  turned  entirely  on  children  and  ailments! 
As  regards  wit,  the  English  are  like  the  Oriental 
potentate  who  at  a  ball  in  Europe  expressed  his 
astonishment  that  the  guests  took  the  trouble  to 
dance  and  get  themselves  hot  and  dishevelled, 
explaining  that  in  the  East  he  paid  people  to  do 
that  for  him.  In  England  "amusers"  are  invited 
expressly  to  be  funny;  anything  uttered  by  one 
of  these  delightful  individuals  is  sure  to  be  re 
ceived  with  much  laughter.  It  is  so  simple  that 
way  !  One  is  prepared  and  knows  when  to  laugh. 
Whereas  amateur  wit  is  confusing.  When  an 
American  I  knew,  turning  over  the  books  on  a 
drawing-room  table  and  finding  Hare's  Walks  in 
London,  in  two  volumes,  said,  "  So  you  part  your 
hair  in  the  middle  over  here,"  the  remark  was 
received  in  silence,  and  with  looks  of  polite  sur 
prise. 

It  is  not  necessary,  however,  to  accumulate 

[70] 


"CLIMBERS"    13^   E  NQL 

proofs  that  this  much  described  society  is  less  in 
telligent  than  our  own.  Their  authors  have  ac 
knowledged  it,  and  well  they  may.  For  from 
Scott  and  Dickens  down  to  Hall  Caine,  Ameri 
can  appreciation  has  gone  far  toward  establishing 
the  reputation  of  English  writers  at  home. 

I  n  spite  of  lack  of  humor  and  a  thousand  other 
defects  which  ought  to  make  English  swelldom 
antagonistic  to  our  countrymen,  the  fact  remains 
that  "smart"  London  tempts  a  certain  number 
of  Americans  and  has  become  a  promised  land, 
toward  which  they  turn  longing  eyes.  You  will 
always  find  a  few  of  these  votaries  over  there  in 
the  "season,"  struggling  bravely  up  the  social 
current,  making  acquaintances,  spending  money 
at  charity  sales,  giving  dinners  and  fetes,  taking 
houses  at  Ascot  and  filling  them  with  their  new 
friends'  friends.  With  more  or  less  success  as  the 
new-comers  have  been  able  to  return  satisfactory 
answers  to  the  three  primary  questions. 

What  Americans  are  these,  who  force  us  to 
blush  for  them  infinitely  more  than  for  the  unlet 
tered  tourists  trotting  conscientiously  around  the 
country,  doing  the  sights  and  asking  for  soda- 
water  and  buckwheat  cakes  at  the  hotels ! 

Any  one  who  has  been  an  observer  of  the  genus 
"Climber"  at  home,  and  wondered  at  their  way 
and  courage,  will  recognize  these  ambitious  souls 
abroad;  five  minutes'  conversation  is  enough.  It 
is  never  about  a  place  that  they  talk,  but  of  the 
people  they  know.  London  to  them  is  not  the 

[71  ] 


THE    WrfTS    OF 


city  of  Dickens.  It  is  a  place  where  one  may  meet 
the  Prince  of  Wales  and  perhaps  obtain  an  en 
trance  into  his  set. 

One  description  will  cover  most  climbers. 
They  are,  as  a  rule,  people  who  start  humbly  in 
some  small  city,  then  when  fortune  comes,  push 
on  to  New  York  and  Newport,  where  they  carry 
all  before  them  and  make  their  houses  centres 
and  themselves  powers.  Next  comes  the  discov 
ery  that  the  circle  into  which  they  have  forced 
their  way  is  not  nearly  as  attractive  as  it  appeared 
from  a  distance.  Consequently  that  vague  disap 
pointment  is  felt  which  most  of  us  experience 
on  attaining  a  long  desired  goal  —  the  unsatis- 
facloriness  of  success  !  Much  the  same  sensation 
as  caused  poor  Du  Maurier  to  answer,  when  asked 
shortly  before  his  death  why  he  looked  so  glum, 
"  I  'm  soured  by  success  !  " 

So  true  is  this  of  all  human  nature  that  the 
following  recipe  might  be  given  for  the  attain 
ment  of  perfed:  happiness  :  "  Begin  far  down  in 
any  walk  of  life.  Rise  by  your  efforts  higher  each 
year,  and  then  be  careful  to  die  before  discover 
ing  that  there  is  nothing  at  the  top.  The  excite 
ment  of  the  struggle  —  'the  rapture  of  the  chase' 
—  are  greater  joys  than  achievement." 

Our  ambitious  friends  naturally  ignore  this 
bit  of  philosophy.  When  it  is  discovered  that  the 
"world"  at  home  has  given  but  an  unsatisfactory 
return  for  cash  and  conniving,  it  occurs  to  them 
that  the  fault  lies  in  the  circle,  and  they  assume 


"CLIMBERS" 


that  their  particular  talents  require  a  larger  field. 
Having  conquered  all  in  sight,  these  social  Alex 
anders  pine  for  a  new  world,  which  generally 
turns  out  to  be  the  "  Old,"  so  a  crossing  is  made, 
and  the  "Conquest  of  England"  begun  with  all 
the  enthusiasm  and  push  employed  on  starting 
out  from  the  little  native  city  twenty  years  be 
fore. 

It  is  in  Victoria's  realm  that  foemen  worthy  of 
their  steel  await  the  conquerors.  Home  society 
was  a  too  easy  prey,  opening  its  doors  and  laying 
down  its  arms  at  the  first  summons.  In  England 
the  new-comers  find  that  their  little  game  has  been 
played  before;  and,  well,  what  they  imagined  was 
a  discovery  proves  to  be  a  long-studied  science 
with  "donnant!  dormant!  "as  its  fundamental  law. 
Wily  opponents  with  trump  cards  in  their  hands 
and  a  profound  knowledge  of  "Hoyle"  smil 
ingly  offer  them  seats.  Having  acquired  in  a 
home  game  a  knowledge  of  "bluff,"  our  friends 
plunge  with  delight  into  the  fray,  only  to  find 
English  society  so  formed  that,  climb  they  never 
so  wisely,  the  top  can  never  be  reached.  Work  as 
hard  as  they  may,  succeed  even  beyond  their  fond 
est  hopes,  there  will  always  remain  circles  above, 
toward  which  to  yearn  —  people  who  will  refuse 
to  know  them,  houses  they  will  never  be  invited 
to  enter.  Think  of  the  charm,  the  attraction  such 
a  civilization  must  have  for  the  real  born  climber, 
and  you,  my  reader,  will  understand  why  certain 
of  our  compatriots  enjoy  living  in  England,  and 

[73  ] 


THE    WtATS    OF 


why  when  once  the  intoxicating  draught  (supplied 
to  the  ambitious  on  the  other  side)  has  been  tasted, 
all  home  concoctions  prove  insipid. 


[74] 


N°-  10 

Calve  at  Cabrieres 


WHILE  I  was  making  a  "cure"  last  year 
at  Lamalou,an  obscure  Spa  in  the  Ce- 
vennes  Mountains,  Madame  Calve, to 
whom  I  had  expressed  a  desire  to  see  her  pic 
turesque  home,  telegraphed  an  invitation  to  pass 
the  day  with  her,  naming  the  train  she  could 
meet,  which  would  allow  for  the  long  drive  to 
her  chateau  before  luncheon.  It  is  needless  to 
say  the  invitation  was  accepted.  As  my  train  drew 
up  at  the  little  station,  Madame  Calve,  in  her  trap, 
was  the  first  person  I  saw,  and  no  time  was  lost 
in  getting  en  route. 

During  the  hour  passed  on  the  poplar-bor 
dered  road  that  leads  straight  and  white  across  the 
country  I  had  time  to  appreciate  the  transforma 
tion  in  the  woman  at  my  side.  Was  this  gray-clad, 
nunlike  figure  the  passionate,  sensuous  Carmen 
of  Bizet's  masterpiece  ?  Could  that  calm,  pale  face, 
crossed  by  innumerable  lines  of  suffering,  as  a 
spider's  web  lies  on  a  flower,  blaze  and  pant  with 
Sappho's  guilty  love? 

Something  of  these  thoughts  must  have  ap 
peared  on  my  face,  for  turning  with  a  smile,  she 
asked,  "You  find  me  changed?  It's  the  air  of 
my  village.  Here  I  'm  myself.  Everywhere  else 
I  'm  different.  On  the  stage  I  am  any  part  I  may 
be  playing,  but  am  never  really  happy  away  from 

[75] 


THE    ir<ArS    OF 


my  hill  there."  As  she  spoke,  a  sun-baked  ham 
let  came  in  sight,  huddled  around  the  base  of  two 
tall  towers  that  rose  cool  and  gray  in  the  noon 
day  heat. 

"All  that  wing,"  she  added,  "is  arranged  for 
the  convalescent  girls  whom  I  have  sent  down 
to  me  from  the  Paris  hospitals  for  a  cure  of  fresh 
air  and  simple  food.  Six  years  ago,  just  after  I 
had  bought  this  place,  a  series  of  operations 
became  necessary  which  left  me  prostrated  and 
anaemic.  No  tonics  were  of  benefit.  I  grew  weaker 
day  by  day,  until  the  doctors  began  to  despair  of 
my  life.  Finally,  at  the  advice  of  an  old  woman 
here  who  passes  for  being  something  of  a  curer, 
I  tried  the  experiment  of  lying  five  or  six  hours 
a  day  motionless  in  the  sunlight.  It  was  n't  long 
before  I  felt  life  creeping  back  to  my  poor  feeble 
body.  The  hot  sun  of  our  magic  south  was  a  more 
subtle  tonic  than  any  drug.  When  the  cure  was 
complete,  I  made  up  my  mind  that  each  summer 
the  same  chance  should  be  offered  to  as  many  of 
my  suffering  sisters  as  this  old  place  could  be 
made  to  accommodate." 

The  bells  on  the  shaggy  Tarbes  ponies  she 
was  driving  along  the  Languedoc  road  drew,  on 
nearing  her  residence,  a  number  of  peasant  chil 
dren  from  their  play. 

As  the  ruddy  urchins  ran  shouting  around  our 
carriage  wheels  and  scrambled  in  the  dust  for  the 
sous  we  threw  them,  my  hostess  pointed  laugh 
ing  to  a  scrubby  little  girl  with  tomato-colored 

[76  ] 


C^fBRIERES 


cheeks  and  tousled  dark  hair,  remarking,  "I 
looked  like  that  twenty  years  ago  and  performed 
just  those  antics  on  this  very  road.  No  punish 
ment  would  keep  me  off  the  highway.  Those 
pennies,  if  I  'm  not  mistaken,  will  all  be  spent  at 
the  village  pastry  cook's  within  an  hour." 

This  was  said  with  such  a  tender  glance  at 
the  children  that  one  realized  the  great  artist 
was  at  home  here,  surrounded  by  the  people  she 
loved  and  understood.  True  to  the  "homing" 
instinct  of  the  French  peasant,  Madame  Calve, 
when  fortune  came  to  her,  bought  and  partially 
restored  the  rambling  chateau  which  at  sunset 
casts  its  shadow  across  the  village  of  her  birth. 
Since  that  day  every  moment  of  freedom  from 
professional  labor  and  every  penny  of  her  large 
income  are  spent  at  Cabrieres,  building,  plan 
ning,  even  farming,  when  her  health  permits. 

"I  think,"  she  continued,  as  we  approached 
the  chateau,  "that  the  happiest  day  of  my  life 
—  and  I  have,  as  you  know,  passed  some  hours 
worth  living,  both  on  and  off  the  stage  —  was  . 
when,  that  wing  completed,  a  Paris  train  brought 
the  first  occupants  for  my  twenty  little  bedrooms  ; 
no  words  can  tell  the  delight  it  gives  me  now  to 
see  the  color  coming  back  to  my  patients'  pale 
lips  and  hear  them  laughing  and  singing  about 
the  place.  As  I  am  always  short  of  funds,  the 
idea  of  abandoning  this  work  is  the  only  fear  the 
future  holds  for  me." 

With  the  vivacity  peculiar  to  her  character,  my 

[77  ] 


THE  ir^rs  OF 


companion  then  whipped  up  her  cobs  and  turned 
the  conversation  into  gayer  channels.  Five  min 
utes  later  we  clattered  over  a  drawbridge  and 
drew  up  in  a  roomy  courtyard,  half  blinding  sun 
light  and  half  blue  shadow,  where  a  score  of  girls 
were  occupied  with  books  and  sewing. 

The  luncheon  bell  was  ringing  as  we  ascended 
the  terrace  steps.  After  a  hurried  five  minutes 
for  brushing  and  washing,  we  took  our  places  at 
a  long  table  set  in  the  cool  stone  hall,  guests 
stopping  in  the  chateau  occupying  one  end 
around  the  chatelaine,  the  convalescents  filling 
the  other  seats. 

Those  who  have  only  seen  the  capricious  diva 
on  the  stage  or  in  Parisian  salons  can  form  little 
idea  of  the  proprietress  of  Cabrieres.  No  shade 
of  coquetry  blurs  the  clear  picture  of  her  home 
life.  The  capped  and  saboted  peasant  women  who 
waited  on  us  were  not  more  simple  in  their  ways. 
Several  times  during  the  meal  she  left  her  seat  to 
inquire  after  the  comfort  of  some  invalid  girl  or  in 
spect  the  cooking  in  the  adjacent  kitchen.  These 
wanderings  were  not,  however,  allowed  to  disturb 
the  conversation,  which  flowed  on  after  the  mellow 
French  fashion,  enlivened  by  much  wit  and  gay 
badinage.  One  of  our  hostess's  anecdotes  at  her 
own  expense  was  especially  amusing. 

"When  in  Venice,"  she  told  us,  "most  prima 
donnas  are  carried  to  and  from  the  opera  in  sedan 
chairs  to  avoid  the  risk  of  colds  from  the  draughty 
gondolas.  The  last  night  of  my  initial  season  there, 

[78] 


I  was  informed,  as  the  curtain  fell,  that  a  number 
of  Venetian  nobles  were  planning  to  carry  me  in 
triumph  to  the  hotel.  When  I  descended  from 
my  dressing-room  the  courtyard  of  the  theatre  was 
filled  with  men  in  dress  clothes,  bearing  lanterns, 
who  caught  up  the  chair  as  soon  as  I  was  seated 
and  carried  it  noisily  across  the  city  to  the  hotel. 
Much  moved  by  this  unusual  honor,  I  mounted 
to  the  balcony  of  my  room,  from  which  elevation 
I  bowed  my  thanks,  and  threw  all  the  flowers  at 
hand  to  my  escort. 

"Next  morning  the  hotel  proprietor  appeared 
with  my  coffee,  and  after  hesitating  a  moment, 
remarked:  *  Well,  we  made  a  success  of  it  last 
night.  It  has  been  telegraphed  to  all  the  capitals 
of  Europe !  I  hope  you  will  not  think  a  thousand 
francs  too  much,  considering  the  advertisement ! ' 
In  blank  amazement,  I  asked  what  he  meant. '  I 
mean  the  triumphal  progress,'  he  answered.  CI 
thought  you  understood !  We  always  organize 
one  for  the  "  stars"  who  visit  Venice.  The  men  who 
carried  your  chair  last  night  were  the  waiters 
from  the  hotels.  We  hire  them  on  account  of  their 
dress  clothes' !  Think  of  the  disillusion,"  added 
Calve,  laughing,  "and  my  disgust,  when  I  thought 
of  myself  naively  throwing  kisses  and  flowers  to 
a  group  of  Swiss  gardens  at  fifteen  francs  a  head. 
There  was  nothing  to  do,  however,  but  pay  the 
bill  and  swallow  my  chagrin ! " 

How  many  pretty  women  do  you  suppose 
would  tell  such  a  joke  upon  themselves?  Another 

[79] 


THE    W^rS    OF 


story  she  told  us  is  characteristic  of  her  peasant 
neighbors. 

"  When  I  came  back  here  after  my  first  season 
in  St.  Petersburg  and  London  the  cure  requested 
me  to  sing  at  our  local  fete.  I  gladly  consented, 
and,  standing  by  his  side  on  the  steps  of  the  Mai- 
He,  gave  the  great  aria  from  the  Huguenots  in  my 
best  manner.  To  my  astonishment  the  perfor 
mance  was  received  in  complete  silence.  '  Poor 
Calve,'  I  heard  an  old  friend  of  my  mother's  mur 
mur.  '  Her  voice  used  to  be  so  nice,  and  now  it's 
all  gone  !  '  Taking  in  the  situation  at  a  glance,  I 
threw  my  voice  well  up  into  my  nose  and  started 
off  on  a  well-known  provincial  song,  in  the  shrill 
falsetto  of  our  peasant  women.  The  effect  was 
instantaneous  !  Long  before  the  end  the  per 
formance  was  drowned  in  thunders  of  applause. 
Which  proves  that  to  be  popular  a  singer  must 
adapt  herself  to  her  audience." 

Luncheon  over,  we  repaired  for  cigarettes  and 
coffee  to  an  upper  room,  where  Calve  was  giving 
Dagnan-Bouveret  some  sittings  for  a  portrait, 
and  lingered  there  until  four  o'clock,  when  our 
hostess  left  us  for  her  siesta,  and  a  "break"  took 
those  who  cared  for  the  excursion  across  the  valley 
to  inspect  the  ruins  of  a  Roman  bath.  A  late  din 
ner  brought  us  together  again  in  a  small  dining- 
room,  the  convalescents  having  eaten  their  simple 
meal  and  disappeared  an  hour  before.  During 
this  time,  another  transformation  had  taken  place 
in  our  mercurial  hostess  !  It  was  the  Calve  of 
[80] 


C^fLFE    <AT   C^VRIERES 

Paris,  Calve  the  witch,  Calve  the  capifeuse,  who 
presided  at  the  dainty,  flower-decked  table  and 
led  the  laughing  conversation. 

A  few  notes  struck  on  a  guitar  by  one  of  the 
party,  as  we  sat  an  hour  later  on  the  moonlit  ter 
race,  were  enough  to  start  off  the  versatile  artist, 
who  was  in  her  gayest  humor.  She  sang  us  stray 
bits  of  opera,  alternating  hermusicwith  scenes  bur 
lesqued  from  recent  plays.  No  one  escaped  her 
inimitable  mimicry,  not  even  the  "  divine  Sarah, " 
Calve  giving  us  an  unpayable  impersonation  of  the 
elderly  tragedienne  as  Lorenzaccio,  the  boy  hero 
of  Alfred  de  Musset's  drama.  Burlesquing  led  to 
her  dancing  some  Spanish  steps  with  an  abandon 
never  attempted  on  the  stage!  Which  in  turn  gave 
place  to  an  imitation  of  an  American  whistling  an 
air  from  Carmen,  and  some  "coon  songs"  she  had 
picked  up  during  her  stay  at  New  York.  They, 
again,  were  succeeded  by  a  superb  rendering  of 
the  imprecation  from  Racine's  Camille,  which 
made  her  audience  realize  that  in  gaining  a  so 
prano  the  world  has  lost,  perhaps,  its  greatest 
tragedienne. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  clatter  of  hoofs  in  the 
court  warned  us  that  the  pleasant  evening  had 
come  to  an  end.  A  journalist  en  route  for  Paris 
was  soon  installed  with  me  in  the  little  omnibus 
that  was  to  take  us  to  the  station,  Calve  herself 
lighting  our  cigars  and  providing  the  wraps  that 
were  to  keep  out  the  cool  night  air. 

As  we  passed  under  the  low  archway  of  the  en- 

[»'  1 


THE    fT^frS    OF    ME 


trance  amid  a  clamor  of  "adieu"  and  "aurevoir," 
the  young  Frenchman  at  my  side  pointed  up  to 
a  row  of  closed  windows  overhead.  "Isn't  it  a 
lesson,"  he  said,  "for  all  of  us,  to  think  of  the 
occupants  of  those  little  rooms,  whom  the  gen 
erosity  and  care  of  that  gracious  artist  are  leading 
by  such  pleasant  paths  back  to  health  and  courage 
for  their  toilsome  lives?" 


[82] 


A  Cry  for  Fresh  Air 

ONCE  upon  a  time,"  reads  the  familiar 
nursery  tale,  while  the  fairies,  invited 
by  a  king  and  queen  to  the  christen 
ing  of  their  daughter,  were  showering  good  gifts 
on  the  baby  princess,  a  disgruntled  old  witch, 
whom  no  one  had  thought  of  asking  to  the  cere 
mony,  appeared  uninvited  on  the  scene  and  re 
venged  herself  by  decreeing  that  the  presents  of 
the  good  fairies,  instead  of  proving  beneficial, 
should  bring  only  trouble  and  embarrassment  to 
the  royal  infant. 

A  telling  analogy  might  be  drawn  between  that 
unhappy  princess  over  whose  fate  so  many  youth 
ful  tears  have  been  shed,  and  the  condition  of 
our  invention-ridden  country;  for  we  see  every 
day  how  the  good  gifts  of  those  nineteenth  cen 
tury  fairies,  Science  and  Industry ,  instead  of  prov 
ing  blessings  to  mankind,  are  being  turned  by 
ignorance  and  stupidity  into  veritable  afflictions. 
If  a  prophetic  gentleman  had  told  Louis  Four 
teenth's  shivering  courtiers — whom  an  iron  eti 
quette  forced  on  winter  mornings  into  the  (ap 
propriately  named)  Galerie  des  Glaces,  stamping 
their  silk-clad  feet  and  blowing  on  their  blue  fin 
gers,  until  the  king  should  appear — that  within 
a  century  and  a  half  one  simple  discovery  would 
enable  all  classes  of  people  to  keep  their  shops 

[  83] 


THE  ir^rs  OF 


and  dwellings  at  a  summer  temperature  through 
the  severest  winters,  the  half-frozen  nobles  would 
have  flouted  the  suggestion  as  an  "iridescent 
dream,"  a  sort  of  too-good-to-be-true  prophecy. 

What  was  to  those  noblemen  an  unheard-of 
luxury  has  become  within  the  last  decade  one  of 
the  primary  necessities  of  our  life. 

The  question  arises  now:  Are  we  gainers  by 
the  change?  Has  the  indiscriminate  use  of  heat 
been  of  advantage,  either  mentally  or  physically, 
to  the  nation? 

The  incubus  of  caloric  that  sits  on  our  gasping 
country  is  particularly  painful  at  this  season,  when 
nature  undertakes  to  do  her  own  heating. 

In  other  less-favored  lands,  the  first  spring 
days,  the  exquisite  awakening  of  the  world  after 
a  long  winter,  bring  to  the  inhabitants  a  sensa 
tion  of  joy  and  renewed  vitality.  We,  however, 
have  discounted  that  enjoyment.  Delicate  grada 
tions  of  temperature  are  lost  on  people  who  have 
been  stewing  for  six  months  in  a  mixture  of  steam 
and  twice-breathed  air. 

What  pleasure  can  an  early  April  day  afford  the 
man  who  has  slept  in  an  over-heated  flat  and  is 
hurrying  to  an  office  where  eighty  degrees  is  the 
average  all  the  year  round?  Or  the  pale  shop-girl, 
who  complains  if  a  breath  of  morning  air  strays 
into  the  suburban  train  where  she  is  seated? 

As  people  who  habitually  use  such  "relishes" 
as  Chutney  and  Worcestershire  are  incapable 
of  appreciating  delicately  prepared  food,  so  the 

[  84] 


CRT    FO         FRESH 


"soft"  mortals  who  have  accustomed  themselves 
to  a  perpetual  August  are  insensible  to  fine  shad- 
ings  of  temperature. 

The  other  day  I  went  with  a  friend  to  inspect 
some  rooms  he  had  been  decorating  in  one  of  our 
public  schools.  The  morning  had  been  frosty,  but 
by  eleven  o'clock  the  sun  warmed  the  air  uncom 
fortably.  On  entering  the  school  we  were  met  by 
a  blast  of  heated  air  that  was  positively  stagger 
ing.  In  the  recitation  rooms,  where,  as  in  all  New 
York  schoolrooms,  the  children  were  packed  like 
dominoes  in  a  box,  the  temperature  could  not 
have  been  under  eighty-five. 

The  pale,  spectacled  spinster  in  charge,  to 
whom  we  complained  of  this,  was  astonished  and 
offended  at  what  she  considered  our  interference, 
and  answered  that  "the  children  liked  it  warm," 
as  for  herself  she  "had  a  cold  and  could  not  think 
of  opening  a  window."  If  the  rooms  were  too 
warm  it  was  the  janitor's  fault,  and  he  had  gone 
out! 

Twelve  o'clock  struck  before  we  had  finished 
our  tour  of  inspection.  It  is  to  be  doubted  if  any 
where  else  in  the  world  could  there  be  found  such 
a  procession  of  pasty-faced,  dull-eyed  youngsters 
as  trooped  past  us  down  the  stairs.  Their  appear 
ance  was  the  natural  result  of  compelling  chil 
dren  dressed  for  winter  weather  to  sit  many  hours 
each  day  in  hothouses,  more  suited  to  tropical 
plants  than  to  growing  human  beings. 

A  gentleman  with  us  remarked  with  a  sigh, 


THE    W^TS    OF 


"I  have  been  in  almost  every  school  in  the  city 
and  find  the  same  condition  everywhere.  It  is 
terrible,  but  there  does  n't  seem  to  be  any  rem 
edy  for  it."  The  taste  for  living  in  a  red-hot  at 
mosphere  is  growing  on  our  people;  even  public 
vehicles  have  to  be  heated  now  to  please  the 
patrons. 

When  tiresome  old  Benjamin  Franklin  made 
stoves  popular  he  struck  a  terrible  blow  at  the 
health  of  his  compatriots;  the  introduction  of 
steam  heat  and  consequent  suppression  of  all 
health-giving  ventilation  did  the  rest;  the  rosy 
cheeks  of  American  children  went  up  the  chim 
ney  with  the  last  whiff  of  wood  smoke,  and  have 
never  returned.  Much  of  our  home  life  followed; 
no  family  can  be  expected  to  gather  in  cheerful 
converse  around  a  "radiator." 

How  can  this  horror  of  fresh  air  among  us  be 
explained?  If  people  really  enjoy  living  in  over 
heated  rooms  with  little  or  no  ventilation,  why 
is  it  that  we  hear  so  much  complaining,  when  dur 
ing  the  summer  months  the  thermometer  runs 
up  into  the  familiar  nineties?  Why  are  children 
hurried  out  of  town,  and  why  do  wives  consider 
it  a  necessity  to  desert  their  husbands? 

It  's  rather  inconsistent,  to  say  the  least,  for 
not  one  of  those  deserters  but  would  "kick"  if 
the  theatre  or  church  they  attend  fell  below  that 
temperature  in  December. 

It  is  impossible  to  go  into  our  banks  and  offi 
ces  and  not  realize  that  the  air  has  been  breathed 
[86] 


<A   CRT   FO^   FRESH    <A I ^ 

again  and  again,  heated  and  cooled,  but  never 
changed, — doors  and  windows  fit  too  tightly  for 
that. 

The  pallor  and  dazed  expression  of  the  em 
ployees  tell  the  same  tale.  I  spoke  to  a  youth  the 
other  day  in  an  office  about  his  appearance  and 
asked  if  he  was  ill.  "Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  have 
had  a  succession  of  colds  all  winter.  You  see,  my 
desk  here  is  next  to  the  radiator,  so  I  am  in  a 
perpetual  perspiration  and  catch  cold  as  soon  as 
I  go  out.  Last  winter  I  passed  three  months  in 
a  farmhouse,  where  the  water  froze  in  my  room  at 
night,  and  we  had  to  wear  overcoats  to  our  meals. 
Yet  I  never  had  a  cold  there,  and  gained  in  weight 
and  strength." 

Twenty  years  ago  no  "palatial  private  resi 
dence"  was  considered  complete  unless  there  was 
a  stationary  washstand  (forming  a  direct  con 
nection  with  the  sewer)  in  each  bedroom.  We 
looked  pityingly  on  foreigners  who  did  not  enjoy 
these  advantages,  until  one  day  we  realized  that 
the  latter  were  in  the  right,  and  straightway  sta 
tionary  washstands  disappeared. 

How  much  time  must  pass  and  how  many  vic 
tims  be  sacrificed  before  we  come  to  our  senses 
on  the  great  radiator  question? 

As  a  result  of  our  population  living  in  a  fur 
nace,  it  happens  now  that  when  you  rebel  on 
being  forced  to  take  an  impromptu  Turkish  bath 
at  a  theatre,  the  usher  answers  your  complaint 
with  "It  can't  be  as  warm  as  you  think,  for  a  lady 

[87] 


THE    WtATS    OF    fME 


over  there  has  just  told  me  she  felt  chilly  and 
asked  for  more  heat!" 

Another  invention  of  the  enemy  is  the"revolv- 
ingdoor.  "  By  this  ingenious  contrivance  thelittle 
fresh  air  that  formerly  crept  into  a  building  is  now 
excluded.  Which  explains  why  on  entering  our 
larger  hotels  one  is  taken  by  the  throat,  as  it  were, 
by  a  sickening  long-dead  atmosphere  —  in  which 
the  souvenir  of  past  meals  and  decaying  flowers 
floats  like  a  regret  —  such  as  explorers  must  find 
on  opening  an  Egyptian  tomb. 

Absurd  as  it  may  seem,  it  has  become  a  dis 
tinction  to  have  cool  rooms.  Alas,  they  are  rare! 
Those  blessed  households  where  one  has  the  de 
licious  sensation  of  being  chilly  and  can  turn  with 
pleasure  toward  crackling  wood!  The  open  fire 
has  become,  within  the  last  decade,  a  test  of  refine 
ment,  almost  a  question  of  good  breeding,  form 
ing  a  broad  distinction  between  dainty  households 
and  vulgar  ones,  and  marking  the  line  which 
separates  the  homes  of  cultivated  people  from 
the  parlors  of  those  who  care  only  for  display. 

A  drawing-room  filled  with  heat,  the  source 
of  which  remains  invisible,  is  as  characteristic  of 
the  parvenu  as  clanking  chains  on  a  harness  or 
fine  clothes  worn  in  the  street. 

An  open  fire  is  the  "eye"  of  a  room,  which  can 
no  more  be  attractive  without  it  than  the  human 
face  can  be  beautiful  if  it  lacks  the  visual  organs. 
The  "gas  fire"  bears  about  the  same  relation  to 
the  real  thing  as  a  glass  eye  does  to  a  natural  one, 
'  [  88] 


CRT   FO         FRESH 


and  produces  much  the  same  sensation.  Artificial 
eyes  are  painful  necessities  in  some  cases,  and 
therefore  cannot  be  condemned;  but  the  house 
hold  which  gathers  complacently  around  a  "gas 
log"  must  havesomethingradicallywrongwith  it, 
and  would  be  capable  of  worse  offences  against 
taste  and  hospitality. 

There  is  a  tombstone  in  a  New  England  grave 
yard  the  inscription  on  which  reads  :  "  I  was  well, 
I  wanted  to  be  better.  Here  I  am." 

As  regards  heating  of  our  houses,  it  's  to  be 
feared  that  we  have  gone  much  the  same  road  as 
the  unfortunate  NewEnglander.  I  don't  mean  to 
imply  that  he  is  now  suffering  from  too  much  heat, 
but  we,  as  a  nation,  certainly  are. 

Janitors  and  parlor-car  conductors  have  re 
placed  the  wicked  fairies  of  other  days,  but  are 
apparently  animated  by  their  malignant  spirit, 
and  employ  their  hours  of  brief  authority  as 
cruelly.  No  witch  dancing  around  her  boiling 
cauldron  was  ever  more  joyful  than  the  fireman 
of  a  modern  hotej,  as  he  gleefully  turns  more  and 
more  steam  upon  his  helpless  victims.  Long  ac 
quaintance  with  that  gentleman  has  convinced  me 
that  he  cannot  plead  ignorance  as  an  excuse  for 
falling  into  these  excesses.  It  is  pure,  unadulter 
ated  perversity,  else  why  should  he  invariably 
choose  the  mildest  mornings  to  show  what  his 
engines  can  do? 

Many  explanations  have  been  offered  for  this 
love  of  a  high  temperature  by  our  compatriots. 

[89] 


THE    WJIYS    OF    3VL  E 


Perhaps  the  true  one  has  not  yet  been  found.  Is 
it  not  possible  that  what  appears  to  be  folly  and 
almost  criminal  negligence  of  the  rules  of  health, 
may  be,  after  all,  only  a  commendable  ambition 
to  renew  the  exploits  of  those  biblical  heroes, 
Shadrach,  Meshach,  and  Abednego? 


[90] 


N"'    12 

The  Paris  of  our  Grandparents 

WE  are  apt  to  fall  into  the  error  of  assum 
ing  that  only  American  cities  have  dis 
placed  their  centres  and  changed  their 
appearance  during  the  last  half-century. 

The  "oldest  inhabitant,"  with  his  twice-told 
tales  of  transformations  and  changes,  is  to  a  cer 
tain  extent  responsible  for  this;  by  contrast,  we 
imagine  that  the  capitals  of  Europe  have  always 
been  just  as  we  see  them.  So  strong  is  this  im 
pression  that  it  requires  a  serious  effort  of  the 
imagination  to  reconstruct  the  Paris  that  our 
grandparents  knew  and  admired,  few  as  the  years 
are  that  separate  their  day  from  ours. 

It  is,  for  instance,  difficult  to  conceive  of  a 
Paris  that  ended  at  the  rue  Royale,  with  only 
waste  land  and  market  gardens  beyond  the  Made 
leine,  where  to-day  so  many  avenues  open  their 
stately  perspectives;  yet  such  was  the  case!  The 
few  fine  residences  that  existed  beyond  that  point 
faced  the  Faubourg  Saint-Honore,  with  gardens 
running  back  to  an  unkempt  open  country  called 
the  Champs  Elysees,  where  an  unfinished  Arc  de 
Triomphe  stood  alone  in  a  wilderness  that  no 
one  ever  dreamed  of  traversing. 

The  fashionable  ladies  of  that  time  drove  in 
the  afternoon  along  the  boulevards  from  the 
Madeleine  to  the  Chateau  d'Eau,  and  stopped 

[91  ] 


THE    W^TS    OF    314  E 


their  ponderous  yellow  barouches  at  Tortoni's, 
where  ices  were  served  to  them  in  their  carriages, 
while  they  chatted  with  immaculate  dandies  in 
skin-tight  nankeen  unmentionables,  blue  swal 
low-tailed  coats,  and  furry  "beaver"  hats. 

While  looking  over  some  books  in  the  com 
pany  of  an  old  lady  who  from  time  to  time 
opens  her  store  of  treasures  and  recalls  her  re 
mote  youth  at  my  request,  and  whose  spirituel 
and  graphic  language  gives  to  her  souvenirs  the 
air  of  being  stray  chapters  from  some  old-fash 
ioned  romance,  I  received  a  vivid  impression  of 
how  the  French  capital  must  have  looked  fifty 
years  ago. 

Emptying  in  her  company  a  chest  of  books 
that  had  not  seen  the  light  for  several  decades, 
we  came  across  a  "  Panorama  of  the  Boulevards," 
dated  1845,  which  Proved  when  unfolded  to  be 
a  colored  lithograph,  a  couple  of  yards  long  by 
five  or  six  inches  high,  representing  the  line  of 
boulevards  from  the  Madeleine  to  the  Place  de 
la  Bastille.  Each  house,  almost  each  tree,  was 
faithfully  depicted,  together  with  the  crowds  on 
the  sidewalks  and  the  carriages  in  the  street.  The 
whole  scene  was  as  different  from  the  effect  made 
by  that  thoroughfare  to-day  as  though  five  hun 
dred  and  not  fifty  years  had  elapsed  since  the 
little  book  was  printed.  The  picture  breathed  an 
atmosphere  of  calm  and  nameless  quaintness  that 
one  finds  now  only  in  old  provincial  cities  which 
have  escaped  the  ravages  of  improvement. 


TARIS    OF   OUf^   QRANDPARENTS 

My  companion  sat  with  the  book  unfolded 
before  her,  in  a  smiling  trance.  Her  mind  had 
turned  back  to  the  far-away  days  when  she  first 
trod  those  streets  a  bride,  with  all  the  pleasures 
and  few  of  the  cares  of  life  to  think  about. 

I  watched  her  in  silence  (it  seemed  a  sacrilege 
to  break  in  on  such  a  train  of  thought),  until  grad 
ually  her  eyes  lost  their  far-away  expression,  and, 
turning  to  me  with  a  smile,  she  exclaimed :  "  How 
we  ever  had  the  courage  to  appear  in  the  street 
dressed  as  we  were  is  a  mystery !  Do  you  see  that 
carriage?"  pointing  in  the  print  to  a  high-swung 
family  vehicle  with  a  powdered  coachman  on  the 
box,  and  two  sky-blue  lackeys  standing  behind. 
"I  can  remember,  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  going 
to  drive  with  Lady  B ,  the  British  ambassa 
dress,  in  just  such  a  conveyance.  She  drove  four 
horses  with  feathers  on  their  heads,  when  she 
used  to  come  to  Meurice's  for  me.  I  blush  when 
I  think  that  my  frock  was  so  scant  that  I  had  to 
raise  the  skirt  almost  to  my  knees  in  order  to  get 
into  her  carriage. 

"Why  we  did  n't  all  die  of  pneumonia  is  an 
other  marvel,  for  we  wore  low-necked  dresses 
and  the  thinnest  of  slippers  in  the  street,  our 
heads  being  about  the  only  part  that  was  com 
pletely  covered.  I  was  particularly  proud  of  a  tur 
ban  surmounted  with  a  bird  of  paradise,  but 

Lady  B affected  poke  bonnets,  then  just 

coming  into  fashion,  so  large  and  so  deep  that 
when  one  looked  at  her  from  the  side  nothing 

[93] 


THE    W<ATS    OF 


was  visible  except  two  curls,  cas  damp  and  as 
black  as  leeches.'  In  other  ways  our  toilets  were 
absurdly  unsuited  for  every-day  wear;  we  wore 
light  scarves  over  our  necks,  and  rarely  used  fur- 
lined  pelisses." 

Returning  to  an  examination  of  the  panorama, 
my  companion  pointed  out  to  me  that  there  was 
no  break  in  the  boulevards,  where  the  opera- 
house,  with  its  seven  radiating  avenues,  now 
stands,  but  a  long  line  of  Hotels,  dozing  behind 
high  walls,  and  quaint  two-storied  buildings  that 
undoubtedly  dated  from  the  razing  of  the  city 
wall  and  the  opening  of  the  new  thoroughfare 
under  Louis  XV. 

A  little  farther  on  was  the  world-famous  Mai- 
son  Doree,  where  one  almost  expected  to  see 
Alfred  de  Musset  and  le  docteur  Veron  dining 
with  Dumas  and  Eugene  Sue. 

"What  in  the  name  of  goodness  is  that?"  I  ex 
claimed,  pointing  to  a  couple  of  black  and  yellow 
monstrosities  on  wheels,  which  looked  like  three 
carriages  joined  together  with  a  "buggy"  added 
on  in  front. 

"That's  the  diligencejust  arrived  from  Calais  ; 
it  has  been  two  days  en  route,  the  passengers 
sleeping  as  best  they  could,  side  by  side,  and  escap- 
ingfrom  theirconfinement  only  when  horseswere 
changed  or  while  stopping  for  meals.  That  high 
two-wheeled  trap  with  the  little  *  tiger'  standing 
up  behind  is  a  tilbury.  We  used  to  see  the  Count 
d'Orsay  driving  one  like  that  almost  every  day. 

[94] 


TARIS    OF  OU^   qRANDPJRENTS 


He  wore  butter-colored  gloves,  and  the  skirts  of 
his  coat  were  pleated  full  all  around,  and  stood 
out  like  a  ballet'girl's.  It  is  a  pity  they  have  not 
included  Louis  Philippe  and  his  family  jogging 
offto  Neuilly  in  the  court  *  carryall,'  —  the  '  Citizen 
King,'  with  his  blue  umbrella  between  his  knees, 
trying  to  look  like  an  honest  bourgeois,  and  fail 
ing  even  in  that  attempt  to  please  the  Parisians. 

"We  were  in  Paris  in  '48  ;  from  my  window  at 
Meurice's  I  saw  poor  old  Juste  Milieu  read  his 
abdication  from  the  historic  middle  balcony  of 
the  Tuileries,  and  half  an  hour  later  we  perceived 
the  Duchesse  d'Orleans  leave  the  Tuileries  on 
foot,  leading  her  two  sons  by  the  hand,  and  walk 
through  the  gardens  and  across  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  to  the  Corps  Legislatif,  in  a  last  attempt 
to  save  the  crown  for  her  son.  Futile  effort  !  That 
evening  the  '  Citizen  King'  was  hurried  through 
those  same  gardens  and  into  a  passing  cab,  en 
route  for  a  life  exile. 

"Our  balcony  at  Meurice's  was  a  fine  point 
of  observation  from  which  to  watch  a  revolution. 
With  an  opera-glass  we  could  see  the  mob  surg 
ing  to  the  sack  of  the  palace,  the  priceless  furni 
ture  and  bric-a-brac  flung  into  the  street,  court 
dresses  waved  on  pikes  from  the  tall  windows, 
and  finally  the  throne  brought  out,  and  carried 
offto  be  burned.  There  was  no  keeping  the  men 
of  our  party  in  after  that.  They  rushed  off  to 
have  a  nearer  glimpse  of  the  fighting,  and  we  saw 
no  more  of  them  until  daybreak  the  following 

[95] 


THE    W^fTS    OF 


morning,  when,  just  as  we  were  preparing  to  send 
for  the  police,  two  dilapidated,  ragged,  black- 
faced  mortals  appeared,  in  whom  we  barely  recog 
nized  our  husbands.  They  had  been  impressed 
into  service  and  passed  their  night  building  bar 
ricades.  My  better  half,  however,  had  succeeded 
in  snatching  a  handful  of  the  gold  fringe  from 
the  throne  as  it  was  carried  by,  an  act  of  prowess 
that  repaid  him  for  all  his  troubles  and  fatigue. 

"I  passed  the  greater  part  of  forty-eight 
hours  on  our  balcony,  watching  the  mob  march 
ing  by,  singing  La  Marseillaise,  and  camping 
at  night  in  the  streets.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to 
tear  myself  away  from  the  window  long  enough 
to  eat  and  write  in  my  journal. 

"There  was  no  Avenue  de  1'Opera  then.  The 
trip  from  the  boulevards  to  the  Palais-Royal  had 
to  be  made  by  a  long  detour  across  the  Place 
Vendome  (where,  by  the  bye,  a  cattle  market  was 
held)  or  through  a  labyrinth  of  narrow,  bad- 
smelling  little  streets,  where  strangers  easily  lost 
their  way.  Next  to  the  boulevards,  the  Palais- 
Royal  was  the  centre  of  the  elegant  and  dissipated 
life  in  the  capital.  It  was  there  we  met  of  an  af 
ternoon  to  drink  chocolate  at  the  'Rotonde,'  or 
to  dine  at  'Les  Trois  Freres  Provenc^aux,'  and 
let  our  husbands  have  a  try  at  the  gambling 
tables  in  the  Passage  d'Orleans. 

"No  one  thought  of  buying  jewelry  anywhere 
else.  It  was  from  the  windows  of  its  shops  that  the 
fashions  started  on  their  way  around  the  world. 

[96] 


TARIS    OF   OU^   QR4NDPJRENTS 


When  Victoria  as  a  bride  was  visiting  Louis  Phi 
lippe,  she  was  so  fascinated  by  the  aspect  of  the 
place  that  the  gallant  French  king  ordered  a 
miniature  copy  of  the  scene,  made  mpapter-md- 
chey  as  a  present  for  his  guest,  a  sort  of  gigantic 
dolls'  house  in  which  not  only  the  palace  and  its 
long  colonnades  were  reproduced,  but  every  tiny 
shop  and  the  myriad  articles  for  sale  were  copied 
with  Chinese  fidelity.  Unfortunately  the  pear- 
headed  old  king  became  England's  uninvited 
guest  before  this  clumsy  toy  was  finished,  so  it 
never  crossed  the  Channel,  but  can  be  seen  to-day 
by  any  one  curious  enough  to  examine  it,  in  the 
Musee  Carnavalet. 

"  Few  of  us  realize  that  the  Paris  of  Charles 
X.  and  Louis  Philippe  would  seem  to  us  now 
a  small,  ill-paved,  and  worse-lighted  provincial 
town,  with  few  theatres  or  hotels,  communicating 
with  the  outer  world  only  by  means  of  a  horse- 
drawn  'post,'  and  practically  farther  from  Lon 
don  than  Constantinople  is  to-day.  One  feels 
this  isolation  in  the  literature  of  the  time;  bril 
liant  as  the  epoch  was,  the  horizon  of  its  writers 
was  bounded  by  the  boulevards  and  the  Fau 
bourg  Saint-Germain." 

Dumas  says  laughingly,  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  : 
"I  have  never  ventured  into  the  unexplored 
country  beyond  the  Bastille,  but  am  convinced 
that  it  shelters  wild  animals  and  savages."  The 
wit  and  brains  of  the  period  were  concentrated 
into  a  small  space.  Money-making  had  no  more 

[97  ] 


THE    WrfTS    OF 


part  in  the  programme  of  a  writer  then  than  an 
introduction  into  "society."  Catering  to  a  for 
eign  market  and  snobbishness  were  undreamed 
of  degradations.  Paris  had  not  yet  been  turned 
into  the  Foire  du  Monde  that  she  has  since  be 
come,  with  whole  quarters  given  over  to  the  use 
of  foreigners,  —  theatres,  restaurants,  and  hotels 
created  only  for  the  use  of  a  polyglot  population 
that  could  give  lessons  to  the  people  around 
Babel's  famous  "tower." 


[98] 


N°-  13 

Some  American  Husbands 


UNTIL  the  beginning  of  this  century  men 
played  the  beau  role  in  life's  comedy.  As 
in  the  rest  of  the  animal  world,  our  males 
were  the  brilliant  members  of  the  community, 
flaunting  their  gaudy  plumage  at  home  and 
abroad,  while  the  women-folk  remained  in  se 
clusion,  tending  their  children,  directing  the  ser 
vants,  or  ministering  to  their  lords'  comfort. 

In  those  happy  days  the  husband  ruled  su 
preme  at  his  own  fireside,  receiving  the  homage 
of  the  family,  who  bent  to  his  will  and  obeyed 
his  orders. 

During  the  last  century,  however,  the  "part" 
of  better  half  has  become  less  and  less  attractive 
in  America,  one  prerogative  after  another  having 
been  whisked  away  by  enterprising  wives.  Mod 
ern  Delilahs  have  yearly  snipped  off"  more  and 
more  of  Samson's  luxuriant  curls,  and  added 
those  ornaments  to  their  own  coiffures ,  until  in  the 
majority  of  families  the  husband  finds  himself 
reduced  to  a  state  of  bondage  compared  with 
which  the  biblical  hero  enjoyed  a  pampered  idle 
ness.  Times  have  indeed  changed  in  America 
since  the  native  chief  sat  in  dignified  repose  be 
dizened  with  all  the  finery  at  hand,  while  the 
ladies  of  the  family  waited  tremblingly  upon 
him.  To-day  it  is  the  American  husband  who 

[99] 


THE    W^TS    OF 


turns  the  grindstone  all  the  year  round,  and  it  is 
his  pretty  tyrant  who  enjoys  the  elegant  leisure 
that  a  century  ago  was  considered  a  masculine 
luxury. 

To  America  must  be  given  the  credit  of  hav 
ing  produced  the  model  husband,  a  new  species, 
as  it  were,  of  the  genus  homo. 

In  no  role  does  a  compatriot  appear  to  such 
advantage  as  in  that  of  Benedict.  As  a  boy  he  is 
often  too  advanced  for  his  years  or  his  informa 
tion;  in  youth  he  is  conspicuous  neither  for  his 
culture  nor  his  unselfishness.  But  once  in  matri 
monial  harness  this  untrained  animal  becomes 
bridle-wise  with  surprising  rapidity,  and  will  for 
the  rest  of  life  go  through  his  paces,  waltzing, 
kneeing,  and  saluting  with  hardly  a  touch  of  the 
whip.  Whether  this  is  the  result  of  superior  horse- 
womanship  on  the  part  of  American  wives  or  a 
trait  peculiar  to  sons  of  "Uncle  Sam,"  is  hard 
to  say,  but  the  fact  is  self-evident  to  any  observer 
that  our  fair  equestrians  rarely  meet  with  a  rebel 
lious  mount. 

Any  one  who  has  studied  marital  ways  in 
other  lands  will  realize  that  in  no  country  have 
the  men  effaced  themselves  so  gracefully  as  with 
us.  In  this  respect  no  foreign  production  can  com 
pare  for  a  moment  with  the  domestic  article.  In 
English,  French,  and  German  families  the  hus 
band  is  still  all-powerful.  The  house  is  mounted, 
guests  are  asked,  and  the  year  planned  out  to  suit 
his  occupations  and  pleasure.  Here  papa  is  rarely 


SOME    <AMERICA3^    HUSBANDS 

consulted  until  such  matters  have  been  decided 
upon  by  the  ladies,  when  the  head  of  the  house 
is  called  in  to  sign  the  checks. 

I  have  had  occasion  more  than  once  to  bewail 
the  shortcomings  of  the  American  man,  and  so 
take  pleasure  in  pointing  out  the  modesty  and 
good  temper  with  which  he  fills  this  role.  He  is 
trained  from  the  beginning  to  give  all  and  expect 
nothing  in  return,  an  American  girl  rarely  bring 
ing  any  dotto  her  husband,  no  matter  how  wealthy 
her  family  may  be.  If,  as  occasionally  happens,  an 
income  is  allowed  a  bride  by  her  parents,  she  ex 
pects  to  spend  it  on  her  toilets  or  pleasures.  This 
condition  of  the  matrimonial  market  exists  in  no 
other  country;  even  in  England,  where  manages 
de  con-venance  are  rare,  "settlements"  form  an  in 
evitable  prelude  to  conjugal  bliss. 

The  fact  that  she  contributes  little  or  nothing 
to  the  common  income  in  no  way  embarrasses  an 
American  wife;  her  pretensions  are  usually  in  an 
inverse  proportion  to  her  personal  means.  Aman 
I  knew  some  years  ago  deliberately  chose  his  bride 
from  an  impecunious  family  (in  the  hope  that 
her  simple  surroundings  had  inculcated  homely 
taste),  and  announced  to  an  incredulous  circle  of 
friends,  at  his  last  bachelor  dinner,  that  he  in 
tended,  in  future,  to  pass  his  evenings  at  his  fire 
side,  between  his  book  and  his  pretty  spouse. 
Poor,  innocent,  confiding  mortal !  The  wife 
quickly  became  a  belle  of  the  fastest  set  in  town. 
Having  had  more  than  she  wanted  of  firesides  and 

I  ioi   ] 


THE    WtATS    OF 


quiet  evenings  before  her  marriage,  her  idea  was 
to  go  about  as  much  as  possible,  and,  when  not 
so  occupied,  to  fill  her  house  with  company.  It 
may  be  laid  down  as  a  maxim  in  this  connection 
that  a  man  marries  to  obtain  a  home,  and  a  girl 
to  get  away  from  one;  hence  disappointment  on 
both  sides. 

The  couple  in  question  have  in  all  probability 
not  passed  an  evening  alone  since  they  were  mar 
ried,  the  lady  rarely  stopping  in  the  round  of  her 
gayeties  until  she  collapses  from  fatigue.  Their 
home  is  typical  of  their  life,  which  itself  can  be 
taken  as  agood  example  of  the  existence  that  most 
of  our  "smart"  people  lead.  The  ground  floor 
and  the  first  floor  are  given  up  to  entertaining. 
The  second  is  occupied  by  the  spacious  sitting, 
bath,  and  sleeping  rooms  of  the  lady.  A  ten-by- 
twelve  chamber  suffices  for  my  lord,  and  the 
only  den  he  can  rightly  call  his  own  is  a  small 
room  near  the  front  door,  about  as  private  as  the 
sidewalk,  which  is  turned  into  a  cloak-room  when 
ever  the  couple  receive,  making  it  impossible  to 
keep  books  or  papers  of  value  there,  or  even  to 
use  it  as  a  smoking-room  after  dinner,  so  his 
men  guests  sit  around  the  dismantled  dining-table 
while  the  ladies  are  enjoying  a  suite  of  parlors 
above. 

At  first  the  idea  of  such  an  unequal  division 
of  the  house  shocks  our  sense  of  justice,  until  we 
reflect  that  the  American  husband  is  not  ex 
pected  to  remain  at  home.  That's  not  his  place! 


SOME    <AMERICA3^    HUSBANDS 

If  he  is  not  down  town  making  money,  fashion 
dictates  that  he  must  beat  some  club-house  play 
ing  a  game.  A  man  who  should  remain  at  home, 
and  read  or  chat  with  the  ladies  of  his  family,  would 
be  considered  a  bore  and  unmanly.  There  seems 
to  be  no  place  in  an  American  house  for  its  head. 
More  than  once  when  the  friend  I  have  referred 
to  has  asked  me,  at  the  club,  to  dine  informally 
with  him,  we  have  found,  on  arriving,  that  Ma 
dame,  having  an  evening  off,  had  gone  to  bed 
and  forgotten  to  order  any  dinner,  so  we  were 
obliged  to  return  to  the  club  for  our  meal.  When, 
however,  his  wife  is  in  good  health,  she  experts 
her  weary  husband  to  accompany  her  to  dinner, 
opera,  or  ball,  night  after  night,  oblivious  of  the 
work  the  morrow  holds  in  store  for  him. 

In  one  family  I  know,  paterfamilias  goes  by 
the  name  of  the  "purse."  The  more  one  sees  of 
American  households  the  more  appropriate  that 
nameappears.  Everything  isexpefted  of  the  hus 
band,  and  he  is  accorded  no  definite  place  in  re 
turn.  He  leaves  the  house  at  8.30.  When  he  re 
turns,  at  five,  if  his  wife  is  entertaining  a  man  at 
tea,  it  would  be  considered  the  height  of  indeli 
cacy  for  him  to  intrude  upon  them,  for  his  arrival 
would  cast  a  chill  on  the  conversation.  When  a 
couple  dine  out,  the  husband  is  always  la  bete 
noire  of  the  hostess,  no  woman  wanting  to  sit  next 
to  a  married  man,  if  she  can  help  it. 

The  few  Benedicts  who  have  had  the  cour 
age  to  break  away  from  these  conditions  and 

[  I03  ] 


THE    J^^TS    OF 


amuse  themselves  with  yachts,  salmon  rivers,  or 
"grass-bachelor"  trips  to  Europe,  while  secretly 
admired  by  the  women,  are  frowned  upon  in  so 
ciety  as  dangerous  examples,  likely  to  sow  the 
seeds  of  discontent  among  their  comrades;  al 
though  it  is  the  commonest  thing  in  theworld  for 
an  American  wife  to  take  the  children  and  go 
abroad  on  a  tour. 

Imagine  a  German  or  Italian  wife  announcing 
to  her  spouse  that  she  had  decided  to  run  over  to 
England  for  a  year  with  her  children,  that  they 
might  learn  English.  The  mind  recoils  in  horror 
from  the  idea  of  the  catastrophe  that  would  ensue. 

Glance  around  a  ball-room,  a  dinner  party,  or 
the  opera,  if  you  have  any  doubts  as  to  the  unsel 
fishness  of  our  married  men.  How  many  of  them 
do  you  suppose  are  present  for  their  own  pleasure  ? 
The  owner  of  an  opera  box  rarely  retains  a  seat  in 
his  expensive  quarters.  You  generally  find  him 
idling  in  the  lobbies  looking  at  his  watch,  or  re 
pairing  to  a  neighboring  concert  hall  to  pass  the 
weary  hours.  At  a  ball  it  is  even  worse.  One  won 
ders  why  card-rooms  are  not  provided  at  large 
balls  (as  is  the  custom  abroad),  where  the  bored 
husbands  might  find  a  little  solace  over  "  bridge," 
instead  of  yawning  in  the  coat-room  or  making 
desperate  signs  to  their  wives  from  the  doorway, 
—  signals  of  distress,  by  the  bye,  that  rarely  pro 
duce  any  effect. 

It  is  therebellious  husband  who  is  admired  and 
courted,  however.  A  curious  trait  of  human  nature 

[  I04  ] 


SOME    <AMERICA3^   HUSBANDS 

compels  admiration  for  whatever  is  harmful,  and 
forces  us,  in  spite  of  our  better  judgment,  to  de 
preciate  the  useful  and  beneficent.  The  coats-of- 
arms  of  all  countries  are  crowded  with  eagles  and 
lions,  that  never  yet  did  any  good,  living  or  dead ; 
orators  enlarge  on  the  fine  qualities  of  these  birds 
and  beasts,  and  hold  them  up  as  models,  while 
using  as  terms  of  reproach  the  name  of  the  goose 
or  the  cow,  creatures  that  minister  in  a  hundred 
ways  to  our  wants.  Such  a  spirit  has  brought  help 
ful,  productive  "better  halves"  to  the  humble 
place  they  now  occupy  in  the  eyes  of  our  people. 

As  long  as  men  passed  their  time  in  fighting 
and  carousing  they  were  heroes;  as  soon  as  they 
became  patient  bread-winners  all  the  romance 
evaporated  from  their  atmosphere.  The  Jewish 
Hercules  had  his  revenge  in  the  end  and  made 
things  disagreeable  for  his  tormentors.  So  far, 
however,  there  are  no  signs  of  a  revolt  among  the 
shorn  lambs  in  this  country.  They  patiently  bend 
their  necks  to  the  collar — the  kindest,  most  lov 
ing  and  devoted  helpmates  that  ever  plodded  un 
der  the  matrimonial  yoke. 

When  in  the  East,  one  watches  with  admiration 
the  part  a  donkey  plays  in  the  economy  of  those 
primitive  lands.  All  the  work  is  reserved  for  that 
industrious  animal,  and  little  play  falls  to  his 
share.  The  camel  is  always  bad-tempered,  and 
when  overladen  lies  down,  refusing  to  move  until 
relieved  of  its  burden.  The  Turk  is  lazy  and  self 
ish,  the  native  women  pass  their  time  in  chatter- 

[  105  ] 


THE    WJITS    OF 


ing  and  giggling,  the  children  play  and  squabble, 
the  ubiquitous  dog  sleeps  in  the  sun;  but  from 
daybreak  to  midnight  the  little  mouse-colored 
donkeys  toil  unceasingly.  All  burdens  too  bulky 
or  too  cumbersome  for  man  are  put  on  his  back; 
the  provender  which  horses  and  camels  have  re 
fused  becomes  his  portion;  he  is  the  first  to  begin 
the  day's  labor,  and  the  last  to  turn  in.  It  is  im 
possible  to  live  long  in  the  Orient  or  the  south 
of  France  without  becoming  attached  to  those 
gentle,  willing  animals.  The  role  which  honest 
"Bourico"  fills  so  well  abroad  is  played  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic  by  the  American  husband. 
I  mean  no  disrespect  to  my  married  compatri 
ots;  on  the  contrary,  I  admire  them  as  I  do  all 
docile,  unselfish  beings.  It  is  well  for  our  women, 
however,  that  their  lords,  like  the  little  Oriental 
donkeys,  ignore  their  strength,  and  are  content  to 
toil  on  to  the  end  of  their  days,  expecting  neither 
praise  nor  thanks  in  return. 


[  106] 


N°-    14 

"Caro/us" 


IN  the  early  seventies  a  group  of  students  — 
dissatisfied  with  the  cut-and-dried  instruc 
tion  of  the  Paris  art  school  and  attracted  by 
certain  qualities  of  color  and  technique  in  the 
work  of  a  young  Frenchman  from  the  city  of 
Lille,  who  was  just  beginning  to  attract  the  at 
tention  of  connoisseurs — went  in  a  body  to  his 
studio  with  the  request  that  he  would  oversee 
their  work  and  diredt  their  studies.  The  artist  thus 
chosen  was  Carolus-Duran.  Oddly  enough,  a 
majority  of  the  youths  who  sought  him  out  and 
made  him  their  master  were  Americans. 

The  first  modest  workroom  on  the  Boulevard 
Montparnasse  was  soon  too  small  to  hold  the 
pupils  who  crowded  under  this  newly  raised  ban 
ner,  and  a  move  was  made  to  more  commodious 
quarters  near  the  master's  private  studio.  Sargent, 
Dannat,  Harrison,  Beckwith,  Hinckley,  and 
many  others  whom  it  is  needless  to  mention  here, 
will — if  these  lines  come  under  their  notice — 
doubtless  recall  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure  the  roomy 
one-storied  structure  in  the  rue  Notre-Dame  des 
Champs  where  we  established  our  atelier  cTeleves, 
a  self-supporting  cooperative  concern,  each  stu 
dent  contributing  ten  francs  a  month  toward  rent, 
fire,  and  models,  "Carolus" — the  name  by  which 
this  master  is  universally  known  abroad — not 

[  I07  ] 


THE    WtATS    OF 


only  refusing  all  compensation,  according  to  the 
immutable  custom  of  French  painters  of  distinc 
tion,  but,  as  we  discovered  later,  contributing  too 
often  from  his  own  pocket  to  help  out  the  massier 
at  the  end  of  a  difficult  season,  or  smooth  the 
path  of  some  improvident  pupil. 

Those  were  cloudless,  enchanted  days  we 
passed  in  the  tumbled  down  old  atelier:  an  ardent 
springtime  of  life  when  the  future  beckons  gayly 
and  no  doubts  of  success  obscure  the  horizon. 
Our  young  master's  enthusiasm  fired  his  circle  of 
pupils,  who,  as  each  succeeding  year  brought  him 
increasing  fame,  revelled  in  a  reflected  glory  with 
the  generous  admiration  of  youth,  in  which  there 
is  neither  calculation  nor  shadow  of  envy. 

A  portrait  of  Madame  de  Portalais,  exhibited 
about  this  time,  drew  all  art-loving  Paris  around 
the  new  celebrity's  canvas.  Shortly  after,  the  gov 
ernment  purchased  a  painting  (of  our  master's 
beautiful  wife),  now  known  as  La  Femme  au  Gant, 
for  the  Luxembourg  Gallery. 

It  is  difficult  to  overestimate  the  impetus  that 
a  master's  successes  impart  to  the  progress  of  his 
pupils.  My  first  studious  year  in  Paris  had  been 
passed  in  the  shadow  of  an  elderly  painter,  who 
was  comfortably  dozing  on  the  laurels  of  thirty 
years  before.  The  change  from  that  sleepy  en 
vironment  to  the  vivid  enthusiasm  and  dash  of 
Carolus-Duran's  studio  was  like  stepping  out  of 
a  musty  cloister  into  the  warmth  and  movement 
of  a  market-place. 

[  108  ] 


LUS" 


Here,  be  it  said  in  passing,  lies  perhaps  the 
secret  of  the  dry  rot  that  too  often  settles  on  our 
American  art  schools.  We,  for  some  unknown 
reason,  do  not  take  the  work  of  native  painters 
seriously,  nor  encourage  them  in  proportion  to 
their  merit.  In  consequence  they  retain  but  a  fee 
ble  hold  upon  their  pupils. 

Carolus,  handsome,  young,  successful,  courted, 
was  an  ideal  leader  for  a  band  of  ambitious,  high- 
strung  youths,  repaying  their  devotion  with  an 
untiring  interest  and  lifting  clever  and  dull  alike 
on  the  strong  wings  of  his  genius.  His  visits  to 
the  studio,  on  which  his  friend  Henner  often 
accompanied  him,  were  frequent  and  prolonged; 
certain  Tuesdays  being  especially  appreciated  by 
us,  as  they  were  set  apart  for  his  criticism  of 
original  compositions. 

When  our  sketches  (the  subject  for  which  had 
been  given  out  in  advance)  were  arranged,  and 
we  had  seated  ourselves  in  a  big  half-circle  on  the 
floor,  Carolus  would  install  himself  on  a  tall  stool, 
the  one  seat  the  studio  boasted,  and  chat  apropos 
of  the  works  before  him  on  composition,  on  clas 
sic  art,  on  the  theories  of  color  and  clair-obscur. 
Brilliant  talks,  inlaid  with  much  wit  and  incisive 
criticism,  the  memory  of  which  must  linger  in  the 
minds  of  all  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  hear 
them.  Nor  was  it  to  the  studio  alone  that  our 
master's  interest  followed  us.  He  would  drop  in 
at  the  Louvre,  when  we  were  copying  there,  and 
after  some  pleasant  words  of  advice  and  encour- 


THE    WtAYS    OF    3\4  E 


agement,  lead  us  off  for  a  stroll  through  the  gal 
leries,  interrupted  by  stations  before  his  favorite 
masterpieces. 

So  important  has  he  always  considered  a  con 
stant  study  of  Renaissance  art  that  recently,  when 
about  to  commence  his  'Triumph  of  Bacchus,  Caro- 
lus  copied  one  of  Rubens's  larger  canvases  with 
all  the  naivete  of  a  beginner. 

An  occasion  soon  presented  itself  for  us  to 
learn  another  side  of  our  trade  by  working  with 
our  master  on  a  ceiling  ordered  of  him  by  the 
state  for  the  Palace  of  the  Luxembourg.  The  vast 
studios  which  the  city  of  Paris  provides  on  oc 
casions  of  this  kind,  with  a  liberality  that  should 
make  our  home  corporations  reflect,  are  situated 
out  beyond  the  Exhibition  buildings,  in  a  curi 
ous,  unfrequented  quarter,  ignored  alike  by  Pari 
sians  and  tourists,  where  the  city  stores  com 
promising  statues  and  the  valuable  debris  of  her 
many  revolutions.  There,  among  throneless  Na 
poleons  and  riderless  bronze  steeds,  we  toiled  for 
over  six  months  side  by  side  with  our  master,  on 
a  gigantic  Apotheosis  of  Marie  de  Medicis,  serving 
in  turn  as  painter  and  painted,  and  leaving  the 
imprint  of  our  hands  and  the  reflection  of  our 
faces  scattered  about  the  composition.  Day  after 
day,  when  work  was  over,  we  would  hoist  the 
big  canvas  by  means  of  a  system  of  ropes  and 
pulleys,  from  a  perpendicular  to  the  horizontal 
position  it  was  to  occupy  permanently,  and  then 
sit  straining  our  necks  and  discussing  the  prog- 

[  no] 


ress  of  the  work  until  the  tardy  spring  twilight 
warned  us  to  depart. 

The  year  1877  brought  Carolus-Duran  the 
medaille  d'honneur,  a  crowning  recompense  that 
set  the  atelier  mad  with  delight.  We  immediately 
organized  a  great  (but  economical)  banquet  to 
commemorate  the  event,  over  which  our  master 
presided,  with  much  modesty,  considering  the 
amount  of  incense  we  burned  before  him,  and 
the  speeches  we  made.  One  of  our  number  even 
burst  into  some  very  bad  French  verses,  assert 
ing  that  the  painters  of  the  world  in  general  fell 
back  before  him  — 

.  .  .  tpouvanth  — 
Craignant  tgalement  $a  brosse  et  son  Iple. 

This  allusion  to  his  proficiency  in  fencing  was 
considered  particularly  neat,  and  became  the  fa 
vorite  song  of  the  studio,  to  be  howled  in  and  out 
of  season. 

Curiously  enough,  there  is  always  something 
in  Carolus-Duran's  attitude  when  at  work  which 
recalls  the  swordsman.  With  an  enormous  pal 
ette  in  one  hand  and  a  brush  in  the  other,  he  has 
a  way  of  planting  himself  in  front  of  his  sitter  that 
is  amusingly  suggestive  of  a  duel.  His  lithe  body 
sways  to  and  fro,  his  fine  leonine  face  quivers  with 
the  intense  study  of  his  model ;  then  with  a  sud 
den  spring  forward,  a  few  rapid  touches  are  dashed 
on  the  canvas  (like  home  strokes  in  the  enemy's 
weakest  spot)  with  a  precision  of  hand  acquired 
only  by  long  years  of  fencing. 


THE    l^^TS    OF    ME 


An  order  to  paint  the  king  and  queen  of 
Portugal  was  the  next  step  on  the  road  to  fame, 
another  rung  on  the  pleasant  ladder  of  success. 
When  this  work  was  done  the  delighted  sover 
eign  presented  the  painter  with  the  order  of 
"Christ  of  Portugal,"  together  with  many  other 
gifts,  among  which  a  caricature  of  the  master  at 
work,  signed  by  his  sitter,  is  not  the  least  valued. 

When  the  great  schism  occurred  several  years 
ago  which  rent  the  art  world  of  France,  Carolus- 
Duran  was  elected  vice-president  of  the  new 
school  under  Meissonier,  to  whose  office  he  suc 
ceeded  on  that  master's  death;  and  now  directs 
and  presides  over  the  yearly  exhibition  known 
as  the  Salon  du  Champ  de  Mars. 

At  his  chateau  near  Paris  or  at  Saint  Raphael, 
on  the  Mediterranean,  the  master  lives,  like  Leo 
nardo  of  old,  the  existence  of  a  grand  seigneur, 
surrounded  by  his  family,  innumerable  guests, 
and  the  horses  and  dogs  he  loves,  —  a  group  of 
which  his  ornate  figure  and  expressive  face  form 
the  natural  centre.  Each  year  he  lives  more  away 
from  the  world,  but  no  more  inspiriting  sight 
can  be  imagined  than  the  welcome  the  president 
receives  of  a  "varnishing"  day,  when  he  makes 
his  entry  surrounded  by  his  pupils.  The  students 
cheer  themselves  hoarse,  and  the  public  climbs  on 
everything  that  comes  to  hand  to  see  him  pass. 
It  is  hard  to  realize  then  that  this  is  the  same 
man  who,  not  content  with  his  youthful  progress, 
retired  into  an  Italian  monastery  that  he  might 

[  i"] 


commune  face  to  face  with  nature  undisturbed. 

The  works  of  no  other  painter  give  me  the 
same  sensation  of  quivering  vitality,  except  the 
Velasquez  in  the  Madrid  Gallery  and,  perhaps, 
Sargent  at  his  best;  and  one  feels  all  through  the 
American  painter's  work  the  influence  of  his 
first  and  only  master. 

"  Tout  ce  qui  nest  pas  indispensable  est  nuisible" 
a  phrase  which  is  often  on  Carolus-Duran's  lips, 
may  be  taken  as  the  keynote  of  his  work,  where 
one  finds  a  noble  simplicity  of  line  and  color 
scheme,  an  elimination  of  useless  detail,  a  con 
tempt  for  tricks  to  enforce  an  effect,  and  above 
all  a  comprehension  and  mastery  of  light,  vitality, 
and  texture — those  three  unities  of  the  painter's 
art — that  bring  his  canvases  very  near  to  those 
of  his  self-imposed  Spanish  master. 

Those  who  know  the  French  painter's  more 
important  works  and  his  many  splendid  studies 
from  the  nude,  feel  it  a  pity  that  such  master 
pieces  as  the  equestrian  portrait  of  Mile.  Croi- 
sette,  of  the  Comedie  Franchise,  the  Reveil,  the 
superb  full  length  of  Mme.  Pelouse  on  the  Ter 
race  of  Chenonceau,  and  the  head  of  Gounod  in 
the  Luxembourg,  could  not  be  collected  into  one 
exhibition,  that  lovers  of  art  here  in  America 
might  realize  for  themselves  how  this  master's 
works  are  of  the  class  that  typify  a  school  and 
an  epoch,  and  engrave  their  author's  name  among 
those  destined  to  become  household  words  in  the 
mouths  of  future  generations. 

[  "3  ] 


N°-  15 

The  Grand  Opera  Fad 

WITHOUT  being  more  curious  than 
my  neighbors,  there  are  several  social 
mysteries  that  I  should  like  to  fathom, 
among  others,  the  real  reasons  that  induce  the 
different  classes  of  people  one  sees  at  the  opera 
to  attend  that  form  of  entertainment. 

A  taste  for  the  theatre  is  natural  enough.  It 
is  also  easy  to  understand  why  people  who  are 
fond  of  sport  and  animals  enjoy  races  and  dog 
shows.  But  the  continued  vogue  of  grand  opera, 
and  more  especially  of  Wagner's  long-drawn-out 
compositions,  among  our  restless,  unmusical 
compatriots,  remains  unexplained. 

The  sheeplike  docility  of  our  public  is  appar 
ent  in  numberless  ways;  in  none,  however,  more 
strikingly  than  in  their  choice  of  amusements.  In 
business  and  religion,  people  occasionally  think 
for  themselves ;  in  the  selection  of  entertainments, 
never!  but  are  apparently  content  to  receive  their 
opinions  and  prejudices  ready-made  from  some 
unseen  and  omnipotent  Areopagus. 

The  careful  study  of  an  opera  audience  from 
different  parts  of  our  auditorium  has  brought  me 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  public  there  may  be 
loosely  divided  into  three  classes — leaving  out 
reporters  of  fashionable  intelligence,  dressmakers 
in  search  of  ideas,  and  the  lady  inhabitants  of 

[  "4] 


THE        R^NT>    OPER^f   F  Jt  T> 


"Crank  Alley"  (as  a  certain  corner  of  the  or 
chestra  is  called),  who  sit  in  perpetual  adoration 
before  the  elderly  tenor. 

First  —  but  before  venturing  further  on  dan 
gerously  thin  ice,  it  may  be  as  well  to  suggest  that 
this  subjecl  is  not  treated  in  absolute  seriousness, 
and  that  all  assertions  must  not  be  taken  aupied 
de  la  lettre.  First,  then,  and  most  important, 
come  the  stockholders,  for  without  them  the 
Metropolitan  would  close.  The  majority  of  these 
fortunate  people  and  their  guests  look  upon  the 
opera  as  a  social  function,  where  one  can  meet 
one's  friends  and  be  seen,  an  entertaining  ante 
chamber  in  which  to  linger  until  it  's  time  to  "go 
on,"  her  Box  being  to-day  as  necessary  a  part 
of  a  great  lady's  outfit  as  a  country  house  or  a 
ball-room. 

Second  are  those  who  attend  because  it  has 
become  the  correcl  thing  to  be  seen  at  the  opera. 
There  is  so  much  wealth  in  this  city  and  so  little 
opportunity  for  its  display,  so  many  people  long 
to  go  about  who  are  asked  nowhere,  that  the  op 
era  has  been  seized  upon  as  a  centre  in  which  to 
air  rich  apparel  and  elbow  the  "world."  This  list 
fills  a  large  part  of  the  closely  packed  parquet 
and  first  balcony. 

Third,  and  last,  come  the  lovers  of  music,  who 
mostly  inhabit  greater  altitudes. 

The  motive  of  the  typical  box-owner  is  simple. 
Her  night  at  the  opera  is  the  excuse  for  a  cosy 
little  dinner,  one  woman  friend  (two  would  spoil 

[  "5] 


THE  tr^rs  OF 


the  effect  of  the  box)  and  four  men,  without 
counting  the  husband,  who  appears  at  dinner,  but 
rarely  goes  further.  The  pleasant  meal  and  the 
subsequent  smoke  are  prolonged  until  9  or  9.30, 
when  the  men  are  finally  dragged  murmuring 
from  their  cigars.  If  she  has  been  fortunate  and 
timed  her  arrival  to  correspond  with  an  entraffe, 
my  lady  is  radiant.  The  lights  are  up,  she  can  see 
who  are  present,  and  the  public  can  inspect  her 
toilet  and  jewels  as  she  settles  herself  under  the 
combined  gaze  of  the  house,  and  proceeds  to  hold 
an  informal  reception  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
The  men  she  has  brought  with  her  quickly  cede 
their  places  to  callers,  and  wander  yawning  in  the 
lobby  or  invade  the  neighboring  boxes  and  add 
their  voices  to  the  general  murmur. 

Although  there  is  much  less  talking  than  for 
merly,  it  is  the  toleration  of  this  custom  at  all  by 
the  public  that  indicates  (along  with  many  other 
straws)  that  we  are  not  a  music-loving  people.  Au 
dible  conversation  during  a  performance  would 
not  be  allowed  for  a  moment  by  a  Continental 
audience.  The  little  visiting  that  takes  place  in 
boxes  abroad  is  done  during  the  entr'actes,  when 
people  retire  to  the  salons  back  of  their  loges  to 
eat  ices  and  chat.  Here  those  little  parlors  are 
turned  into  cloak-rooms,  and  small  talk  goes  on 
in  many  boxes  during  the  entire  performance. 
The  joke  or  scandal  of  the  day  is  discussed; 
strangers  in  town,  or  literary  and  artistic  lights  — 
"freaks,"  they  are  discriminatingly  called  —  are 
[  ,,6  ] 


THE    qR^NT>    OTER^t    F  <A  <D 

pointed  out,  toilets  passed  in  review,  and  those 
dreadful  two  hours  passed  which,  for  some  un 
discovered  reason,  must  elapse  between  a  dinner 
and  a  dance.  If  a  favorite  tenor  is  singing,  and 
no  one  happens  to  be  whispering  nonsense  over 
her  shoulder,  my  lady  may  listen  in  a  distrait  way. 
It  is  not  safe,  however,  to  count  on  prolonged 
attention  or  ask  her  questions  about  the  perfor 
mance.  She  is  apt  to  be  a  bit  hazy  as  to  who  is  sing 
ing,  and  with  the  exception  of  Faust  and  Car 
men,  has  rudimentary  ideas  about  plots.  Singers 
come  and  go,  weep,  swoon,  or  are  killed,  with 
out  interfering  with  her  equanimity.  She  has, 
for  instance,  seen  the  Huguenots  and  the  Rhein- 
gold  dozens  of  times,  but  knows  no  more  why 
Raoul  is  brought  blindfolded  to  Chenonceaux, 
or  what  Wotan  and  Erda  say  to  each  other  in 
their  interminable  scenes,  than  she  does  of  the 
contents  of  the  Vedas.  For  the  matter  of  that,  if 
three  or  four  principal  airs  were  suppressed  from 
an  opera  and  the  scenery  and  costumes  changed, 
many  in  that  chattering  circle  would,  I  fear,  not 
know  what  they  were  listening  to. 

Last  winter,  when  Melba  sang  in  Aida,  dis 
guised  by  dark  hair  and  a  brown  skin,  a  lady 
near  me  vouchsafed  the  opinion  that  the  "little 
black  woman  had  n't  a  bad  voice;"  a  gentleman 
(to  whom  I  remarked  last  week  "that  as  Sem- 
brich  had  sung  Rosina  in  the  B  arber,  it  was  rather 
a  shock  to  see  her  appear  as  that  lady's  servant 
in  the  Manage  de  Figaro"}  looked  his  blank 

[  "7] 


THE    W^YS    OF 


amazement  until  it  was  explained  to  him  that 
one  of  those  operas  was  a  continuation  of  the 
other.  After  a  pause  he  remarked,  "They  are 
not  by  the  same  composer,  anyway!  Because  the 
first  's  by  Rossini,  and  the  Manage  is  by  Bon 
Marche.  I  Ve  been  at  his  shop  in  Paris." 

The  presence  of  the  second  category  —  the 
would-be  fashionable  people  —  is  not  so  easily 
accounted  for.  Their  attendance  can  hardly  be 
attributed  to  love  of  melody,  as  they  are,  if  any 
thing,  a  shade  less  musical  than  the  box-dwellers, 
who,  by  the  bye,  seem  to  exercise  an  irresistible 
fascination,  to  judge  by  the  trend  of  conversation 
and  direction  of  glasses.  Although  an  imposing 
and  sufficiently  attentive  throng,  it  would  be  dif 
ficult  to  find  a  less  discriminating  public  than 
that  which  gathers  nightly  in  the  Metropolitan 
parterre.  One  wonders  how  many  of  those  peo 
ple  care  for  music  and  how  many  attend  because 
it  is  expensive  and  "swell." 

They  will  listen  with  the  same  bland  content 
ment  to  either  bad  or  good  performances  so  long 
as  a  world-renowned  artist  (some  one  who  is  be 
ing  paid  a  comfortable  little  fortune  for  the  even 
ing)  is  on  the  stage.  The  orchestra  may  be  badly 
led  (it  often  is)  ;  the  singers  may  flat  or  be  out  of 
voice;  the  performance  may  go  all  at  sixes  and 
sevens  —  there  is  never  a  murmur  of  dissent. 
Faults  that  would  set  an  entire  audience  at  Na 
ples  or  Milan  hissing  are  accepted  here  with  igno 
rant  approval. 

[  "M 


THE    qR^NT>    OTERJI    F  <£  <D 

The  unfortunate  part  of  it  is  that  this  weak 
ness  of  ours  has  become  known.  The  singers  feel 
they  can  give  an  American  audience  any  slipshod 
performance.  I  have  seen  a  favorite  soprano  shrug 
her  shoulders  as  she  entered  her  dressing-room 
and  exclaim :  "MonDieu  !  How  I  shuffled  through 
that  act!  They  'd  have  hooted  me  off  the  stage  in 
Berlin,  but  here  no  one  seems  to  care.  Did  you 
notice  the  baritone  to-night?  He  was  n't  on  the 
key  once  during  our  duo.  I  cannot  sing  my  best, 
try  as  I  will,  when  I  hear  the  public  applauding 
good  and  bad  alike!" 

It  is  strange  that  our  pleasure-loving  rich  peo 
ple  should  have  hit  on  the  opera  as  a  favorite 
haunt.  We  and  the  English  are  the  only  race  who 
will  attend  performances  in  a  foreign  language 
which  we  don't  understand.  How  can  intelligent 
people  who  don't  care  for  music  go  on,  season 
after  season,  listening  to  operas,  the  plots  of  which 
they  ignore,  and  which  in  their  hearts  they  find 
dull? 

Is  it  so  very  amusing  to  watch  two  middle- 
aged  ladies  nagging  each  other,  at  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  on  a  public  square,  as  they  do  in 
Lohengrin?  Do  people  find  the  lecture  that 
Isolde's  husband  delivers  to  the  guilty  lovers 
entertaining?  Does  an  opera  produce  any  illusion 
on  my  neighbors?  I  wish  it  did  on  me!  I  see  too 
plainly  the  paint  on  the  singers'  hot  faces  and  the 
cords  straining  in  their  tired  throats !  I  sit  on  cer 
tain  nights  in  agony,  fearing  to  see  stout  Romeo 

[  "9] 


THE    W<AYS    OF    34  E 


roll  on  the  stage  in  apoplexy  !  The  sopranos,  too, 
have  a  way,  when  about  to  emit  a  roulade,  that  is 
more  suggestive  of  a  dentist's  chair,  and  the  at 
tendant  gargle,  than  of  a  love  phrase. 

When  two  celebrities  combine  in  a  final  duo, 
facing  the  public  and  not  each  other,  they  give 
the  impression  of  victims  whom  an  unseen  in 
quisitor  is  torturing.  Each  turn  of  his  screw  draws 
out  a  wilder  cry.  The  orchestra  (in  the  pay 
of  the  demon)  does  all  it  can  to  prevent  their 
shrieks  from  reaching  the  public.  The  lovers  in 
turn  redouble  their  efforts;  they  are  purple  in  the 
face  and  glistening  with  perspiration.  Defeat, 
they  know,  is  before  them,  for  the  orchestra  has 
the  greater  staying  power!  The  flutes  bleat;  the 
trombones  grunt;  the  fiddles  squeal;  an  epilep 
tic  leader  cuts  wildly  into  the  air  about  him. 
When,  finally,  their  strength  exhausted,  the 
breathless  human  beings,  with  one  last  ear-pierc 
ing  note,  give  up  the  struggle  and  retire,  the  pub 
lic,  excited  by  the  unequal  contest,  bursts  into 
thunders  of  applause. 

Why  would  n't  it  be  a  good  idea,  in  order  to 
avoid  these  painful  exhibitions,  to  have  an  ar 
rangement  of  screens,  with  the  singing  people 
behind  and  a  company  of  young  and  attractive 
pantomimists  going  through  the  gestures  and 
movements  in  front?  Otherwise,  how  can  the 
most  imaginative  natures  lose  themselves  at  an 
opera?  Even  when  the  singers  are  comely,  there 
is  always  that  eternal  double  row  of  stony-faced 


THE    QR^NT>    0  T  E  R  <A    F  <A  T> 

witnesses  in  full  view,  whom  no  crimes  astonish 
and  no  misfortunes  melt.  It  takes  most  of  the 
poetry  out  of  Faust's  first  words  with  Margue 
rite,  to  have  that  short  interview  interrupted  by 
a  line  of  old,  weary  women  shouting,  "  Let  us 
whirl  in  the  waltz  o'er  the  mount  and  the  plain  ! " 
Or  when  Scotch  Lucy  appears  in  a  smart  tea- 
gown  and  is  good  enough  to  perform  difficult 
exercises  before  a  half-circle  of  Italian  gentlemen 
in  pantalets  and  ladies  in  court  costumes,  does 
she  give  any  one  the  illusion  of  an  abandoned 
wife,  dying  of  a  broken  heart  alone  in  the  High 
lands?  Broken  heart,  indeed!  It's  much  more 
likely  she'll  die  of  a  ruptured  blood-vessel! 

Philistines  in  matters  musical,  like  myself,  un 
fortunate  mortals  whom  the  sweetest  sounds  fail 
to  enthrall  when  connected  with  no  memory  or 
idea,  or  when  prolonged  beyond  a  limited  period, 
must  approach  the  third  group  with  hesitation 
and  awe.  That  they  are  sincere,  is  evident.  The 
rapt  expressions  of  their  faces,  and  their  patience, 
bear  testimony  to  this  fact.  For  a  long  time  I 
asked  myself,  "Where  have  I  seen  that  intense, 
absorbed  attitude  before?  "Suddenly  one  evening 
another  scene  rose  in  my  memory. 

Have  you  ever  visited  Tangiers?  In  the  mar 
ket-place  of  that  city  you  will  find  the  inhabitants 
crouched  by  hundreds  around  their  native  mu 
sicians.  When  we  were  there,  one  old  duffer — 
the  Wagner,  doubtless,  of  the  place — was  having 
an  immense  success.  No  matter  at  what  hour  of 


THE    f^^TS    OF 


the  day  we  passed  through  that  square,  there  was 
always  the  same  spellbound  circle  of  half-clad 
Turks  and  Arabs  squatting  silent  while  "  Wag 
ner"  tinkled  to  them  on  a  three-stringed  lute  and 
chanted  in  a  high-pitched,  dismal  whine  —  like 
the  squeaking  of  an  unfastened  door  in  the  wind. 
At  times,  for  no  apparent  reason,  the  never-vary 
ing,  never-ending  measure  would  be  interrupted 
by  a  flutter  of  applause,  but  his  audience  remained 
mostly  sunk  in  a  hypnotic  apathy.  I  never  see 
a  "  Ring"  audience  now  without  thinking  of  that 
scene  outside  the  Bab-el-  Marsa  gate,  which  has 
led  me  to  ask  different  people  just  what  sensations 
serious  music  produced  upon  them.  The  answers 
have  been  varied  and  interesting.  One  good  lady 
who  rarely  misses  a  German  opera  confessed  that 
sweet  sounds  acted  upon  her  like  opium.  Neither 
scenery  nor  acting  nor  plot  were  of  any  impor 
tance.  From  the  first  notes  of  the  overture  to  the 
end,  she  floated  in  an  ecstatic  dream,  oblivious 
of  time  and  place.  When  it  was  over  she  came 
back  to  herself  faint  with  fatigue.  Another  pro 
fessed  lover  of  Wagner  said  that  his  greatest  pleas 
ure  was  in  following  the  different  "motives"  as 
they  recurred  in  the  music.  My  faith  in  that  gen 
tleman  was  shaken,  however,  when  I  found  the 
other  evening  that  he  had  mistaken  Van  Dyck 
for  Jean  de  Reszke  through  an  entire  perfor 
mance.  He  may  be  a  dab  at  recognizing  his 
friends  the  "motives,"  but  his  discoveries  don't 
apparently  go  as  far  as  tenors! 


THE    QR^NT>    O  T  E  R  <A    F  *A  T> 

No  one  doubts  that  hundreds  of  people  un 
affectedly  love  German  opera,  but  that  as  many 
affect  to  appreciate  it  in  order  to  appear  intel 
lectual  is  certain. 

Once  upon  a  time  the  unworthy  member  of 
an  ultra-serious  "Browning"  class  in  this  city, 
doubting  the  sincerity  of  her  companions,  asked 
permission  to  read  them  a  poem  of  the  master's 
which  she  found  beyond  her  comprehension. 
When  the  reading  was  over  the  opinion  of  her 
friends  was  unanimous:  "  Nothing  could  be  sim 
pler!  The  lines  were  lucidity  itself!  Such  close 
reasoning,  etc."  But  dismay  fell  upon  them  when 
the  naughty  lady  announced,  with  a  peal  of  laugh 
ter,  that  she  had  been  reading  alternate  lines  from 
opposite  pages.  She  no  longer  disturbs  the  har 
mony  of  that  circle! 

Bearing  this  tale  in  mind,  I  once  asked  a 
musician  what  proportion  of  the  audience  at  a 
"Ring"  performance  he  thought  would  know  if 
alternate  scenes  were  given  from  two  of  Wag 
ner's  operas,  unless  the  scenery  enlightened  them. 
His  estimate  was  that  perhaps  fifty  per  cent 
might  find  out  the  fraud.  He  put  the  number 
of  people  who  could  give  an  intelligent  account 
of  those  plots  at  about  thirty  per  hundred. 

The  popularity  of  music,  he  added,  is  largely 
due  to  the  fact  that  it  saves  people  the  trouble 
of  thinking.  Pleasant  sounds  soothe  the  nerves, 
and,  if  prolonged  long  enough  in  a  darkened 
room  will,  like  the  Eastern  tom-toms,  lull  the 


THE    W^TS    OF 


senses  into  a  mild  form  of  trance.  This  must  be 
what  the  gentleman  meant  who  said  he  wished 
he  could  sleep  as  well  in  a  "Wagner"  car  as  he 
did  at  one  of  his  operas! 

Being  a  tailless  old  fox,  I  look  with  ever-in 
creasing  suspicion  on  the  too-luxuriant  caudal 
appendages  of  my  neighbors,  and  think  with 
amusement  of  the  multitudes  who  during  the 
last  ten  years  have  sacrificed  themselves  upon 
the  altar  of  grand  opera  —  simple,  kindly  souls, 
with  little  or  no  taste  for  classical  music,  who 
have  sat  in  the  dark  (mentally  and  physically), 
applauding  what  they  did  n't  understand,  and  lis 
tening  to  vague  German  mythology  set  to  sounds 
that  appear  to  us  outsiders  like  music  sunk  into 
a  verbose  dotage.  I  am  convinced  the  greater 
number  would  have  preferred  a  jolly  perfor 
mance  of  Mme.  Angot  or  the  Cloches  de  Corneville, 
cut  in  two  by  a  good  ballet. 

It  is,  however,  so  easy  to  be  mistaken  on  sub 
jects  of  this  kind  that  generalizing  is  dangerous. 
Many  great  authorities  have  liked  tuneless  mu 
sic.  One  of  the  most  telling  arguments  in  its 
favor  was  recently  advanced  by  a  foreigner.  The 
Chinese  ambassador  told  us  last  winter  in  a  club 
at  Washington  that  Wagner's  was  the  only  Eu 
ropean  music  that  he  appreciated  and  enjoyed. 
"You  see,"  he  added,  "music  is  a  much  older 
art  with  us  than  in  Europe,  and  has  naturally 
reached  a  far  greater  perfection.  The  German 
school  has  made  a  long  step  in  advance,  and  I 

[ 


THE        R<JNT>    OPER«f    F  <A 


can  now  foresee  a  day  not  far  distant  when,  under 
its  influence,  your  music  will  closely  resemble 
our  own." 


N°-  16 

The  Poetic  Cabarets  of  Paris 


THOSE  who  have  not  lived  in  France  can 
form  little  idea  of  the  important  place 
the  cafe  occupies  in  the  life  of  an  average 
Frenchman,  clubs  as  we  know  them  or  as  they 
exist  in  England  being  rare,  and  when  found  be 
ing,  with  few  exceptions,  but  gambling-houses  in 
disguise.  As  a  Frenchman  rarely  asks  an  acquain 
tance,  or  even  a  friend,  to  his  apartment,  the  cafe 
has  become  the  common  ground  where  all  meet, 
for  business  or  pleasure.  Not  in  Paris  only,  but 
all  over  France,  in  every  garrison  town,  provin 
cial  city,  or  tiny  village,  the  cafe  is  the  chief  at 
traction,  the  centre  of  thought,  the  focus  toward 
which  all  the  rays  of  masculine  existence  converge. 
For  the  student,  newly  arrived  from  the  prov 
inces,  to  whose  modest  purse  the  theatres  and  other 
places  of  amusement  are  practically  closed,  the 
cafe  is  a  supreme  resource.  His  mind  is  moulded, 
his  ideas  and  opinions  formed,  more  by  what  he 
hears  and  sees  there  than  by  any  other  influence. 
A  restaurant  is  of  little  importance.  One  may  eat 
anywhere.  But  the  choice  of  his  cafe  will  often  give 
the  bent  to  a  young  man's  career,  and  indicate  his 
exact  shade  of  politics  and  his  opinions  on  litera 
ture,  music,  or  art.  In  Paris,  to  know  a  man  at 
all  is  to  know  where  you  can  find  him  at  the  hour 
of  the  aperitif — what  Baudelaire  called 

[  "6  ] 


POETIC    CABARETS    OF    PARIS 

Uheure  sainte 
De  F  absinthe. 

When  young  men  form  a  society  among  them 
selves,  a  cafe  is  chosen  as  their  meeting-place. 
Thousands  of  establishments  exist  only  by  such 
patronage,  as,  for  example,  the  Cafe  de  la  Re- 
gence,  Place  du  Theatre  Fran^ais,  which  is  fre 
quented  entirely  by  men  who  play  chess. 

Business  men  transact  their  affairs  as  much 
over  their  coffee  as  in  their  offices.  The  reading 
man  finds  at  his  cafe  the  daily  and  weekly  papers ; 
a  writer  is  sure  of  the  undisturbed  possession  of 
pen,  ink,  and  paper.  Henri  Murger,  the  author, 
when  asked  once  why  he  continued  to  patronize 
a  certain  establishment  notorious  for  the  inferior 
quality  of  its  beer,  answered,  "Yes,  the  beer  is 
poor,  but  they  keep  such  good  ink!" 

The  use  of  a  cafe  does  not  imply  any  great  ex 
penditure,  a  consommation  costing  but  little.  With 
it  is  acquired  the  right  to  use  the  establishment 
for  an  indefinite  number  of  hours,  the  client  be 
ing  warmed,  lighted,  and  served.  From  five  to 
seven,  and  again  after  dinner,  the  habitues  stroll 
in,  grouping  themselves  about  the  small  tables, 
each  new-comer  joining  a  congenial  circle,  order 
ing  his  drink,  and  settling  himself  for  a  long  sit 
ting.  The  last  editorial,  the  newest  picture,  or  the 
fall  of  a  ministry  is  discussed  with  a  vehemence 
and  an  interest  unknown  to  Anglo-Saxon  na 
tures.  Suddenly,  in  the  excitement  of  the  discus 
sion,  some  one  will  rise  in  his  place  and  begin 
[  127  ] 


THE    W^TS    OF 


speaking.  If  you  happen  to  drop  in  at  that  mo 
ment,  the  lady  at  the  desk  will  welcome  you  with, 
"You  are  just  in  time!  Monsieur  So-and-So  is 
speaking  ;  the  evening  promises  to  be  interesting." 
She  is  charmed;  her  establishment  will  shine  with 
a  reflected  light,  and  new  patrons  be  drawn  there, 
if  the  debates  are  brilliant.  So  universal  is  this 
custom  that  there  is  hardly  an  orator  to-day  at 
the  French  bar  or  in  the  Senate,  who  has  not 
broken  his  first  lance  in  some  such  obscure  tour 
nament,  under  the  smiling  glances  of  the  dame 
du  comptoir. 

Opposite  the  Palace  of  the  Luxembourg,  in 
the  heart  of  the  old  Latin  Quarter,  stands  a 
quaint  building,  half  hotel,  half  cafe,  where  many 
years  ago  Joseph  II.  resided  while  visiting  his 
sister,  Marie  Antoinette.  It  is  known  now  as 
Foyot's;  this  name  must  awaken  many  happy 
memories  in  the  hearts  of  American  students,  for 
it  was  long  their  favorite  meeting-place.  In  the 
early  seventies  a  club,  formed  among  the  literary 
and  poetic  youth  of  Paris,  selected  Foyot's  as 
their  "home"  during  the  winter  months.  Their 
summer  vacations  were  spent  in  visiting  the  uni 
versity  towns  of  France,  reciting  verses,  or  adting 
in  original  plays  at  Nancy,  Bordeaux,  Lyons,  or 
Caen.  The  enthusiasm  these  youthful  perfor 
mances  created  inspired  one  of  their  number  with 
the  idea  of  creating  in  Paris,  on  a  permanent  foot 
ing,  a  centre  where  a  limited  public  could  meet 
the  young  poets  of  the  day  and  hear  them  recite 


TOETIC    CABARETS    OF    PARIS 

their  verses  and  monologues  in  an  informal  way. 

The  success  of  the  original  "Chat  Noir,"  the 
first  cabaret  of  this  kind,  was  largely  owing  to  the 
sympathetic  and  attractive  nature  of  its  founder, 
young  Salis,  who  drew  around  him,  by  his  sunny 
disposition,  shy  personalities  who,  but  for  him, 
would  still  be  "mute,  inglorious  Miltons."  Un 
der  his  kindly  and  discriminating  rule  many  a 
successful  literary  career  has  started.  Salis's  gifted 
nature  combined  a  delicate  taste  and  critical  acu 
men  with  a  rare  business  ability.  His  first  ven 
ture,  an  obscure  little  cafe  on  the  Boulevard 
Rochechouart,  in  the  outlying  quarter  beyond 
the  Place  Pigalle,  quickly  became  famous,  its 
ever-increasing  vogue  forcing  its  happy  proprie 
tor  to  seek  more  commodious  quarters  in  the  rue 
Victor  Masse,  where  the  world-famous  "Chat 
Noir"  was  installed  with  much  pomp  and  many 
joyous  ceremonies. 

The  old  word  cabaret^  corresponding  closely 
to  our  English  "inn,"  was  chosen,  and  the  estab 
lishment  decorated  in  imitation  of  a  Louis  XIII. 
hotellerie.  Oaken  beams  supported  the  low-stud 
ded  ceilings.  The  plaster  walls  disappeared  be 
hind  tapestries,  armor,  old  faience.  Beer  and  other 
liquids  were  served  in  quaint  porcelain  or  pewter 
mugs,  and  the  waiters  were  dressed  (merry  anach 
ronism)  in  the  costume  of  members  of  the  Insti 
tute  (the  Immortal  Forty),  who  had  so  long  led 
poetry  in  chains.  The  success  of  the  "  Black  Cat" 
in  her  new  quarters  was  immense,  all  Paris  crowd- 

[  "9  ] 


THE    WdYS    OF    JM  E  3^ 

ing  through  her  modest  doors.  Salis  had  founded 
Montmartre! — the  rugged  old  hill  giving  birth 
to  a  generation  of  writers  and  poets,  and  nourish 
ing  this  new  school  at  her  granite  breasts. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a  form  of  en 
tertainment  more  tempting  than  was  offered  in 
this  picturesque  inn.  In  addition  to  the  first, 
the  entire  second  floor  of  the  building  had  been 
thrown  into  one  large  room,  the  walls  covered 
with  a  thousand  sketches,  caricatures,  and  crayon 
drawings  by  hands  since  celebrated  the  world 
over.  A  piano,  with  many  chairs  and  tables,  com 
pleted  the  unpretending  installation.  Here,  dur 
ing  a  couple  of  hours  each  evening,  either  by  the 
piano  or  simply  standing  in  their  places,  the 
young  poets  gave  utterance  to  the  creations  of 
their  imagination,  the  musicians  played  their 
latest  inspirations,  the  raconteur  told  his  newest 
story.  They  called  each  other  and  the  better 
known  among  the  guests  by  their  names,  and 
joked  mutual  weaknesses,  eliminating  from  these 
gatherings  every  shade  of  a  perfunctory  perfor 
mance. 

It  is  impossible  to  give  an  idea  of  the  delicate 
flavor  of  such  informal  evenings — the  sensation 
of  being  at  home  that  the  picturesque  surround 
ings  produced,  the  low  murmur  of  conversation, 
the  clink  of  glasses,  the  swing  of  the  waltz 
movement  played  by  a  master  hand,  interrupted 
only  when  some  slender  form  would  lean  against 
the  piano  and  pour  forth  burning  words  of  in- 


TOETIC    CABARETS    OF    TARIS 

finite  pathos, — the  inspired  young  face  lighted 
up  by  the  passion  and  power  of  the  lines.  The 
burst  of  applause  that  his  talent  called  forth  would 
hardly  have  died  away  before  another  figure  would 
take  the  poet's  place,  a  wave  of  laughter  welcom 
ing  the  new-comer,  whose  twinkling  eyes  and  de 
mure  smile  promised  a  treat  of  fun  and  humor. 
So  the  evening  would  wear  gayly  to  its  end,  the 
younger  element  in  the  audience,  full  of  the  fu 
ture,  drinking  in  long  draughts  of  poetry  and  art, 
the  elders  charmed  to  live  over  again  the  days  of 
their  youth  and  feel  in  touch  once  more  with  the 
present. 

In  this  world  of  routine  and  conventions  an 
innovation  as  brilliantly  successful  as  this  could 
hardly  be  inaugurated  without  raising  a  whirl 
wind  of  jealousy  and  opposition.  The  struggle 
was  long  and  arduous.  Directors  of  theatres  and 
concert  halls,  furious  to  see  a  part  of  their  pub 
lic  tempted  away,  raised  the  cry  of  immorality 
against  the  new-comers,  and  called  to  their  aid 
every  resource  of  law  and  chicanery.  At  the  end 
of  the  first  year  Salis  found  himself  with  over 
eight  hundred  summonses  and  lawsuits  on  his 
hands.  After  having  made  every  effort,  knocked 
at  every  door,  in  his  struggle  for  existence,  he 
finally  conceived  the  happy  thought  of  appealing 
directly  to  Grevy,  then  President  of  the  Repub 
lic,  and  in  his  audience  with  the  latter  succeeded 
in  charming  and  interesting  him,  as  he  had  so 
many  others.  The  influence  of  the  head  of  the 

] 


THE    /Fe^rS    OF    ME 


state  once  brought  to  bear  on  the  affair,  Sails  had 
the  joy  of  seeing  opposition  crushed  and  the 
storm  blow  itself  out. 

From  this  moment,  the  poets,  feeling  them 
selves  appreciated  and  their  rights  acknowledged 
and  defended,  flocked  to  the  "  Sacred  Mountain," 
as  Montmartre  began  to  be  called;  other  estab 
lishments  of  the  same  character  sprang  up  in  the 
neighborhood.  Most  important  among  these 
were  the  "4  z'Arts,"  Boulevard  de  Clichy,  the 
"Tambourin,"  and  La  Butte. 

Trombert,  who,  together  with  Fragerolle, 
Goudezki,  and  Marcel  Lefevre,  had  just  ended 
an  artistic  voyage  in  the  south  of  France,  opened 
the  "4  z'Arts,"  to  which  the  novelty-loving  pub 
lic  quickly  found  its  way,  crowding  to  applaud 
Coquelin  cadet,  Fragson,  and  other  budding 
celebrities.  It  was  here  that  the  poets  first  had 
the  idea  of  producing  a  piece  in  which  rival 
cabarets  were  reviewed  and  laughingly  criticised. 
The  success  was  beyond  all  precedent,  in  spite 
of  the  difficulty  of  giving  a  play  without  a  stage, 
without  scenery  or  accessories  of  any  kind,  the  in 
terest  centring  in  the  talent  with  which  the  lines 
were  declaimed  by  their  authors,  who  next  had 
the  pleasant  thought  of  passing  in  review  the  dif 
ferent  classes  of  popular  songs,  Clovis  Hugues, 
at  the  same  time  poet  and  statesman,  discoursing 
on  each  subject,  and  introducing  the  singer;  Brit 
tany  local  songs,  Provencal  ballads,  and  the  half 
Spanish,  half  French  chansons  of  the  Pyrenees 

[  132  ] 


TOETIC    CABARETS    OF    TARIS 

were  sung  or  recited  by  local  poets  with  the  charm 
and  abandon  of  their  distinctive  races. 

The  great  critics  did  not  disdain  to  attend  these 
informal  gatherings,  nor  to  write  columns  of  se 
rious  criticism  on  the  subject  in  their  papers. 

At  the  hour  when  all  Paris  takes  its  aperitif  th& 
"4  z' Arts  "  became  the  meeting-place  of  the  paint 
ers,  poets,  and  writers  of  the  day.  Montmartre 
gradually  replaced  the  old  Latin  Quarter;  it  is 
there  to-day  that  one  must  seek  for  the  gayety 
and  humor,  the  pathos  and  the  makeshifts  of 
Bohemia. 

The  "4  z' Arts,"  next  to  the  "  Chat  Noir,"  has 
had  the  greatest  influence  on  the  taste  of  our  time, 
—  the  pleiad  of  poets  that  grouped  themselves 
around  it  in  the  beginning,  dispersing  later  to 
form  other  centres,  which,  in  their  turn,  were  to 
influence  the  minds  and  moods  of  thousands. 

Another  charming  form  of  entertainment  in 
augurated  by  this  group  of  men  is  that  of 
"shadow  pictures,"  conceived  originally  by  Ca- 
ran  d'Ache,  and  carried  by  him  to  a  marvellous 
perfection.  A  medium-sized  frame  filled  with 
ground  glass  is  suspended  at  one  end  of  a 
room  and  surrounded  by  sombre  draperies.  The 
room  is  darkened;  against  the  luminous  back 
ground  of  the  glass  appear  small  black  groups 
(shadows  cast  by  figures  cut  out  of  cardboard). 
These  figures  move,  advancing  and  retreating, 
grouping  or  separating  themselves  to  the  cadence 
of  the  poet's  verses,  for  which  they  form  the  most 


THE    W^tYS    OF 


original  and  striking  illustrations.  Entire  poems 
are  given  accompanied  by  these  shadow  pictures. 

One  of  Caran  d'  Ache's  greatest  successes  in 
this  line  was  an  Epopee  de  Napoleon,  —  the  great 
Emperor  appearing  on  foot  and  on  horseback, 
the  long  lines  of  his  army  passing  before  him  in 
the  foreground  or  small  in  the  distance.  They 
stormed  heights,  cheered  on  by  his  presence, 
or  formed  hollow  squares  to  repulse  the  enemy. 
During  their  evolutions,  the  clear  voice  of  the 
poet  rang  out  from  the  darkness  with  thrilling 
effea. 

The  nicest  art  is  necessary  to  cut  these  little 
figures  to  the  required  perfection.  So  great  was 
the  talent  of  their  inventor  that,  when  he  gave 
burlesques  of  the  topics  of  the  day,  or  presented 
the  celebrities  of  the  hour  to  his  public,  each  fig 
ure  would  be  recognized  with  a  burst  of  delighted 
applause.  The  great  Sarah  was  represented  in 
poses  of  infinite  humor,  surrounded  by  her  men 
agerie  or  receiving  the  homage  of  the  universe. 
Political  leaders,  foreign  sovereigns,  social  and 
operatic  stars,  were  made  to  pass  before  a  laugh 
ing  public.  None  were  spared.  Paris  went  mad 
with  delight  at  this  new  "art,"  and  for  months  it 
was  impossible  to  find  a  seat  vacant  in  the  hall. 

At  the  Boite  a  Musique,  the  idea  was  further 
developed.  By  an  ingenious  arrangement  of 
lights,  of  which  the  secret  has  been  carefully 
kept,  landscapes  are  represented  in  color;  all  the 
gradations  of  light  are  given,  from  the  varied 

[  134] 


'POETIC    CABARETS    OF    <P  A  R  I S 

twilight  hues  to  purple  night,  until  the  moon, 
rising,  lights  anew  the  picture.  During  all  these 
variations  of  color  little  groups  continue  to  come 
and  go,  acting  out  the  story  of  a  poem,  which  the 
poet  delivers  from  the  surrounding  obscurity  as 
only  an  author  can  render  his  own  lines. 

One  of  the  pillars  of  this  attractive  centre  was 
Jules  Jouy,  who  made  a  large  place  for  himself 
in  the  hearts  of  his  contemporaries — a  true  poet, 
whom  neither  privations  nor  the  difficult  begin 
nings  of  an  unknown  writer  could  turn  from  his 
vocation.  His  songs  are  alternately  tender,  gay, 
and  bitingly  sarcastic.  Some  of  his  better-known 
ballads  were  written  for  and  marvellously  inter 
preted  by  Yvette  Guilbert.  The  difficult  critics, 
Sarcey  and  Jules  Lemaitre,  have  sounded  his 
praise  again  and  again. 

A  cabaret  of  another  kind  which  enjoyed  much 
celebrity,  more  on  account  of  the  personality  of 
the  poet  who  founded  it  than  from  any  origi 
nality  or  picturesqueness  in  its  intallation,  was 
the  "  Mirliton,"  opened  by  Aristide  Bruant  in  the 
little  rooms  that  had  sheltered  the  original  "Chat 
Noir." 

To  give  an  account  of  the  "  Mirliton  "  is  to  tell 
the  story  of  Bruant,  the  most  popular  ballad- 
writer  in  France  to-day.  This  original  and  eccen 
tric  poet  is  as  well-known  to  a  Parisian  as  the 
boulevards  or  the  Arc  de  Triomphe.  His  cos 
tume  of  shabby  black  velvet,  Brittany  waistcoat, 
red  shirt,  top-boots,  and  enormous  hat  is  a  fa- 

[  "35  ] 


THE    WtATS    OF    3M  E 


miliar  feature  in  the  caricatures  and  prints  of 
the  day.  His  little  cabaret  remains  closed  dur 
ing  the  day,  opening  its  doors  toward  evening. 
The  personality  of  the  ballad-writer  pervades  the 
atmosphere.  He  walks  about  the  tiny  place  hail 
ing  his  acquaintances  with  some  gay  epigram, 
receiving  strangers  with  easy  familiarity  or  chill 
ing  disdain,  as  the  humor  takes  him;  then  in  a 
moment,  with  a  rapid  change  of  expression,  pour 
ing  out  the  ringing  lines  of  one  of  his  ballads  — 
always  the  story  of  the  poor  and  humble,  for 
he  has  identified  himself  with  the  outcast  and 
the  disinherited.  His  volumes  Dans  la  Rue  and 
Sur  la  Route  have  had  an  enormous  popularity, 
their  contents  being  known  and  sung  all  over 
France. 

In  1892  Bruant  was  received  as  a  member  of 
the  society  of  Gens  de  Lettres.  It  may  be  of  in 
terest  to  recall  a  part  of  the  speech  made  by  Fran- 
^ois  Coppee  on  the  occasion:  "It  is  with  the 
greatest  pleasure  that  I  present  to  my  confreres  my 
good  friend,  the  ballad-writer,  Aristide  Bruant. 
I  value  highly  the  author  of  Dans  la  Rue.  When 
I  close  his  volume  of  sad  and  caustic  verses  it 
is  with  the  consoling  thought  that  even  vice  and 
crime  have  their  conscience  :  that  if  there  is  suf 
fering  there  is  a  possible  redemption.  He  has 
sought  his  inspiration  in  the  gutter,  it  is  true, 
but  he  has  seen  there  a  reflection  of  the  stars." 

In  the  Avenue  Trudaine,  not  far  from  the 
other  cabarets  ,  the  "  Ane  Rouge"  was  next  opened, 

[  -36] 


POETIC    CABARETS    OF    PARIS 

in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  immense  suburb,  its 
shady  little  garden,  on  which  the  rooms  open, 
making  it  a  favorite  meeting-place  during  the 
warm  months.  Of  a  summer  evening  no  more 
congenial  spot  can  be  found  in  all  Paris.  The 
quaint  chambers  have  been  covered  with  mural 
paintings  or  charcoal  caricatures  of  the  poets 
themselves,  or  of  familiar  faces  among  the  clients 
and  patrons  of  the  place. 

One  of  the  many  talents  that  clustered  around 
this  quiet  little  garden  was  the  brilliant  Paul 
Verlaine,  the  most  Bohemian  of  all  inhabitants 
of  modern  Prague,  whose  death  has  left  a  void, 
difficult  to  fill.  Fame  and  honors  came  too  late. 
He  died  in  destitution,  if  not  absolutely  of  hun 
ger;  to-day  his  admirers  are  creeling  a  bronze 
bust  of  him  in  the  Garden  of  the  Luxembourg, 
with  money  that  would  have  gone  far  toward 
making  his  life  happy. 

In  the  old  hotel  of  the  Lesdiguieres  family, 
rue  de  la  Tour  d'Auvergne,  the  "Carillon" 
opened  its  doors  in  1 893,  and  quickly  conquered 
a  place  in  the  public  favor,  the  inimitable  fun  and 
spirits  of  Tiercy  drawing  crowds  to  the  place. 

The  famous  "Treteau  de  Tabarin,"  which  to 
day  holds  undisputed  precedence  over  all  the 
cabarets  of  Paris,  was  among  the  last  to  appear. 
It  was  founded  by  the  brilliant  Fursy  and  a  group 
of  his  friends.  Here  no  pains  have  been  spared  to 
form  a  setting  worthy  of  the  poets  and  their 
public. 

[  '37  ] 


THE  tr^rs  OF  ME 


Many  years  ago,  in  the  days  of  the  good  king 
Louis  XIII.,  a  strolling  poet-actor,  Tabarin, 
erected  his  little  canvas-covered  stage  before  the 
statue  of  Henry  IV.,  on  the  Pont-Neuf,  and 
drew  the  court  and  the  town  by  his  fun  and  pa 
thos.  The  founders  of  the  latest  and  most  com 
plete  of  Parisian  cabarets  have  reconstructed,  as 
far  as  possible,  this  historic  scene.  On  the  wall  of 
the  room  where  the  performances  are  given,  is 
painted  a  view  of  old  Paris,  the  Seine  and  its 
bridges,  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame  in  the  dis 
tance,  and  the  statue  of  Louis  XIII.  's  warlike 
father  in  the  foreground.  In  front  of  this  paint 
ing  stands  a  staging  of  rough  planks,  reproducing 
the  little  theatre  of  Tabarin.  Here,  every  evening, 
the  authors  and  poets  play  in  their  own  pieces, 
recite  their  verses,  and  tell  their  stories.  Not  long 
ago  a  young  musician,  who  has  already  given  an 
opera  to  the  world,  sang  an  entire  one-act  operetta 
of  his  composition,  changing  his  voice  for  the  dif 
ferent  parts,  imitating  choruses  by  clever  effects 
on  the  piano. 

Montmartre  is  now  sprinkled  with  attractive 
cabarets,  the  taste  of  the  public  for  such  informal 
entertainments  having  grown  each  year;  with  rea 
son,  for  the  careless  grace  of  the  surroundings, 
the  absence  of  any  useless  restraint  or  obligation 
as  to  hour  or  duration,  has  a  charm  for  thousands 
whom  a  long  concert  or  the  inevitable  five  acts 
at  the  Francois  could  not  tempt.  It  would  be  dif 
ficult  to  overrate  the  influence  such  an  atmos- 


POETIC  CABARETS  OF  PARIS 

phere,  breathed  in  youth,  must  have  on  the  taste 
and  character.  The  absence  of  a  sordid  spirit,  the 
curse  of  our  material  day  and  generation,  the  con 
tact  with  intellects  trained  to  incase  their  thoughts 
in  serried  verse  or  crisp  and  lucid  prose,  cannot 
but  form  the  hearer's  mind  into  a  higher  and  bet 
ter  mould.  It  is  both  a  satisfaction  and  a  hope  for 
the  future  to  know  that  these  influences  are  being 
felt  all  over  the  capital  and  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  France.  There  are  at  this  moment 
in  Paris  alone  three  or  four  hundred  poets,  bal 
lad  writers,  and  raconteurs  who  recite  their  works 
in  public. 

It  must  be  hard  for  the  untravelled  Anglo- 
Saxon  to  grasp  the  idea  that  a  poet  can,  without 
loss  of  prestige,  recite  his  lines  in  a  public  cafe 
before  a  mixed  audience.  If  such  doubting  souls 
could,  however,  be  present  at  one  of  these  noftes 
ambrosian<e,  they  would  acknowledge  that  the 
Latin  temperament  can  throw  a  grace  and  child 
like  abandon  around  an  ad  that  would  cause  an 
Englishman  or  an  American  to  appear  supremely 
ridiculous.  One's  taste  and  sense  of  fitness  are 
never  shocked.  It  seems  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world  to  be  sitting  with  your  glass  of  beer 
before  you,  while  some  rising  poet,  whose  name 
ten  years  later  may  figure  among  the  "  Immortal 
Forty,"  tells  to  you  his  loves  and  his  ambition,  or 
brings  tears  into  your  eyes  with  a  description  of 
some  humble  hero  or  martyr. 

From  the  days  of  Homer  poetry  has  been  the 


THE    W^TS    OF 


instructor  of  nations.  In  the  Orient  to-day  the 
poet  story-teller  holds  his  audience  spellbound 
for  hours,  teaching  the  people  their  history  and 
supplying  their  minds  with  food  for  thought, 
raising  them  above  the  dull  level  of  the  brutes  by 
the  charm  of  his  verse  and  the  elevation  of  his 
ideas.  The  power  of  poetry  is  the  same  now  as 
three  thousand  years  ago.  Modern  skeptical 
Paris,  that  scoffs  at  all  creeds  and  chafes  impa 
tiently  under  any  rule,  will  sit  to-day  docile  and 
complaisant,  charmed  by  the  melody  of  a  poet's 
voice;  its  passions  lulled  or  quickened,  like  Alex 
ander's  of  old,  at  the  will  of  a  modern  Timotheus. 


°-  17 

Etiquette  at  Home 

and  Abroad 

READING  that  a  sentinel  had  been  pun 
ished  the  other  day  at  St.  Petersburg  for 
having  omitted  to  present  arms,  as  her 
Imperial  Highness,  the  Grand  Duchess  Olga, 
was  leaving  the  winter  palace — in  her  nurse's 
arms — I  smiled  at  what  appeared  to  be  needless 
punctilio;  then,  as  is  my  habit,  began  turning  the 
subject  over,  and  gradually  came  to  the  conclu 
sion  that  while  it  would  doubtless  be  well  to  sup 
press  much  of  the  ceremonial  encumbering  court 
life,  it  might  not  be  amiss  if  we  engrafted  a  little 
more  etiquette  into  our  intercourse  with  strangers 
and  the  home  relations.  In  our  dear  free  and  easy 
going  country  there  is  a  constant  tendency  to 
loosen  the  ties  of  fireside  etiquette  until  any  man 
ners  are  thought  good  enough,  as  any  toilet  is 
considered  sufficiently  attractive  for  home  use. 
A  singular  impression  has  grown  up  that  formal 
politeness  and  the  say  ing  of  gracious  and  compli 
mentary  things  betray  the  toady  and  the  hypo 
crite,  both  of  whom  are  abhorrent  to  Ameri 
cans. 

By  the  force  of  circumstances  most  people  are 
civil  enough  in  general  society ;  while  many  fail  to 
keep  to  their  high  standard  in  the  intimacy  of 
home  life  and  in  their  intercourse  with  inferiors, 


THE    WtAYS    OF    3M  E 


which  is  a  pity,  as  these  are  the  two  cases  where 
self-restraint  and  amenity  are  most  required.  Po 
liteness  is,  after  all,  but  the  dictate  of  a  kind  heart, 
and  supplies  the  oil  necessary  to  make  the  social 
machinery  run  smoothly.  In  home  life,  which  is 
the  association  during  many  hours  each  day  of 
people  of  varying  dispositions,  views,  and  occu 
pations,  friction  is  inevitable;  and  there  is  especial 
need  of  lubrication  to  lessen  the  wear  and  tear 
and  eliminate  jarring. 

Americans  are  always  much  shocked  to  learn 
that  we  are  not  popular  on  the  Continent.  Such 
a  discovery  comes  to  either  a  nation  or  an  indi 
vidual  like  a  douche  of  cold  water  on  nice,  warm 
conceit,  and  brings  with  it  a  feeling  of  discourage 
ment,  of  being  unjustly  treated,  that  is  painful,  for 
we  are  very  "touchy"  in  America,  and  cry  out 
when  a  foreigner  expresses  anything  but  admira 
tion  for  our  ways,  yet  we  are  the  last  to  lend  our 
selves  to  foreign  customs. 

It  has  been  a  home  thrust  for  many  of  us  to 
find  that  our  dear  friends  the  French  sympathized 
warmly  with  Spain  in  the  recent  struggle,  and  had 
little  but  sneers  for  us.  One  of  the  reasons  for 
this  partiality  is  not  hard  to  discover. 

The  Spanish  who  travel  are  mostly  members 
of  an  aristocracy  celebrated  for  its  grave  courtesy, 
which  has  gone  a  long  way  toward  making  them 
popular  on  the  Continent,  while  we  have  for  years 
been  riding  rough-shod  over  the  feelings  and 
prejudices  of  the  European  peoples,  under  the 

[ 


ETIQUETTE    &c. 

pleasing  but  fallacious  illusion  that  the  money  we 
spent  so  lavishly  in  foreign  lands  would  atone  for 
all  our  sins.  The  large  majority  of  our  travelling 
compatriots  forget  that  an  elaborate  etiquette  ex 
ists  abroad  regulating  the  intercourse  between 
one  class  and  another,  the  result  of  centuries  of 
civilization,  and  as  the  Medic  and  Persian  laws 
for  durability.  In  our  ignorance  we  break  many 
of  these  social  laws  and  give  offence  where  none 
was  intended. 

A  single  illustration  will  explain  my  meaning. 
A  young  American  girl  once  went  to  the  mis 
tress  of  a  pension  where  she  was  staying  and  com 
plained  that  the  concierge  of  the  house  had  been 
impertinent.  When  the  proprietress  asked  the 
concierge  what  this  meant,  the  latter  burst  out  with 
her  wrongs. "  Since  Miss  B.  has  been  in  this  house, 
she  has  never  once  bowed  to  me,  or  addressed  a 
word  to  either  my  husband  or  myself  that  was  not 
aquestion  or  an  order;  shewalks  in  and  out  of  my 
loge  to  look  for  letters  or  take  her  key  as  though 
my  room  were  the  street ;  I  won't  stand  such  treat 
ment  from  any  one,  much  less  from  a  girl.  The 
duchess  who  lives  au  quatrieme  never  passes  with 
out  a  kind  word  or  an  inquiry  after  the  children 
or  my  health." 

Now  this  American  girl  had  erred  through  ig 
norance  of  the  fact  that  in  France  servants  are 
treated  as  humble  friends.  The  man  who  brings 
your  matutinal  coffee  says  "Good  morning"  on 
entering  the  room,  and  inquires  if  "Monsieur 

[  H3  ] 


THE    W^fTS    OF 


has  slept  well,"  expecting  to  be  treated  with  the 
same  politeness  he  shows  to  you. 

The  lady  who  sits  at  the  caisse  of  the  restau 
rant  you  frequent  is  as  sure  of  her  position  as  her 
customers  are  of  theirs,  and  exacts  a  courteous 
salutation  from  every  one  entering  or  leaving  her 
presence  ;  logically,  for  no  gentleman  would  enter 
a  ladies'  drawing-room  without  removing  his  hat. 
The  fact  that  a  woman  is  obliged  to  keep  a  shop 
in  no  way  relieves  him  of  this  obligation. 

People  on  the  Continent  know  their  friends' 
servants  by  name,  and  speak  to  them  on  arriv 
ing  at  a  house,  and  thank  them  for  an  opened 
door  or  offered  coat;  if  a  tip  is  given  it  is  accom 
panied  by  a  gracious  word.  So  rare  is  this  form 
of  civility  in  America  and  England  (for  Britons 
err  as  gravely  in  this  matter  as  ourselves)  that  our 
servants  are  surprised  and  inclined  to  resent  po 
liteness,  as  in  the  case  of  an  English  butler  who 
recently  came  to  his  master  and  said  he  should 
be  "obliged  to  leave."  On  being  questioned  it 
came  out  that  one  of  the  guests  was  in  the  habit 
of  chatting  with  him,  "and,"  added  the  Briton, 
"I  won't  stand  being  took  liberties  with  by  no 
one." 

Some  years  ago  I  happened  to  be  standing  in 
the  vestibule  of  the  Hotel  Bristol  as  the  Princess 
of  Wales  and  her  daughters  were  leaving.  Mr. 
Morlock,  the  proprietor,  was  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  to  take  leave  of  those  ladies,  who  shook 
hands  with  and  thanked  him  for  his  attention 

[   H4  ] 


ETIQUETTE    &c. 

during  their  stay,  and  for  the  flowers  he  had  sent. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  gracious  and  freer 
from  condescension  than  their  manner,  and  it  un 
doubtedly  produced  the  best  impression.  The 
waiter  who  served  me  at  that  time  was  also  under 
their  charm,  and  remarked  several  times  that 
"there  had  never  been  ladies  so  easy  to  please  or 
so  considerate  of  the  servants." 

My  neighbor  at  dinner  the  other  evening  con 
fided  to  me  that  she  was  "worn  out  being  fitted." 
"  I  had  such  an  unpleasant  experience  this  morn 
ing,"  she  added.  "Thejupiere  could  not  get  one 
of  my  skirts  to  hang  properly.  After  a  dozen  at 
tempts  I  told  her  to  send  for  the  forewoman, 
when,  to  my  horror,  the  girl  burst  out  crying, 
and  said  she  should  lose  her  place  if  I  did.  I  was 
very  sorry  for  her,  but  what  else  could  I  do?" 
It  does  not  seem  as  if  that  lady  could  be  very 
popular  with  inferiors,  does  it? 

That  it  needs  a  lighter  hand  and  more  tact  to 
deal  with  tradespeople  than  with  equals  is  certain, 
and  we  are  sure  to  be  the  losers  when  we  fail.  The 
last  time  I  was  in  the  East  a  friend  took  me  into 
the  bazaars  to  see  a  carpet  he  was  anxious  to  buy. 
The  price  asked  was  out  of  all  proportion  to  its 
value,  but  we  were  gravely  invited  by  the  mer 
chant  to  be  seated  and  coffee  was  served,  that  bar 
gaining  (which  is  the  backbone  of  Oriental  trade) 
might  be  carried  on  at  leisure.  My  friend,  nervous 
and  impatient,  like  all  our  race,  turned  to  me  and 
said,  "What 's  all  this  tomfoolery?  Tell  him  I  '11 

[  145] 


THE    W^TS    OF 


give  so  much  for  his  carpet;  he  can  take  it 
or  leave  it."  When  this  was  interpreted  to  the 
bearded  tradesman,  he  smiled  and  came  down  a 
few  dollars  in  his  price,  and  ordered  more  coffee. 
By  this  time  we  were  outside  his  shop,  and  left 
without  the  carpet  simply  because  my  friend 
could  not  conform  to  the  customs  of  the  country 
he  was  visiting.  The  sale  of  his  carpet  was  a  big  af 
fair  for  the  Oriental;  he  intended  to  carry  it  through 
with  all  the  ceremony  the  occasion  required,  and 
would  sooner  not  make  a  sale  than  be  hustled  out 
of  his  stately  routine. 

It  is  not  only  in  intercourse  with  inferiors  that 
ta<5t  is  required.  The  treatment  of  children  and 
young  people  in  a  family  calls  for  delicate  han 
dling.  The  habit  of  taking  liberties  with  young 
relations  is  a  common  form  of  a  relaxed  social 
code  and  the  besetting  sin  of  elderly  people,  who, 
having  little  to  interest  them  in  their  own  lives, 
imagine  that  their  mission  is  to  reform  the  ways 
and  manners  of  their  family.  Ensconced  behind 
the  respect  which  the  young  are  supposed  to 
pay  them,  they  give  free  vent  to  inclination, 
and  carp,  cavil,  and  correct.  The  victims  may 
have  reached  maturity  or  even  middle  age,  but 
remain  always  children  to  these  social  policemen, 
to  be  reproved  and  instructed  in  and  out  of  sea 
son.  "  I  am  doing  this  for  your  own  good,"  is  an 
excuse  that  apparently  frees  the  veterans  from  the 
necessity  of  respecting  the  prejudices  and  feelings 
of  their  pupils,  and  lends  a  gloss  of  unselfishness 


ETIQUETTE    &c. 

to  actions  which  are  simply  impertinent.  Oddly 
enough,  amateur  "schoolmarms"  who  fall  into 
this  unpleasant  habit  are  generally  oversensitive, 
and  resent  as  a  personal  affront  any  restless 
ness  under  criticism  on  the  part  of  their  victims. 
It  is  easy,  once  the  habit  is  acquired,  to  carry 
the  suavity  and  consideration  of  general  society 
into  the  home  circle,  yet  how  often  is  it  done?  I 
should  like  to  see  the  principle  that  ordered  pre 
sentation  of  arms  to  the  infant  princess  applied  to 
our  intimate  relations,  and  the  rights  of  the  young 
and  dependent  scrupulously  respected. 

In  the  third  act  of  Caste,  when  old  Eccles  steals 
the  "coral"  from  his  grandson's  neck,  he  ex 
cuses  the  theft  by  a  grandiloquent  soliloquy,  and 
persuades  himself  that  he  is  protecting  "the  weak 
and  the  humble"  (pointing  to  himself)  "against 
the  powerful  and  the  strong"  (pointing  to  the 
baby).  Alas,  too  many  of  us  take  liberties  with 
those  whom  we  do  not  fear,  and  excuse  our  little 
acts  of  cowardice  with  arguments  as  fallacious  as 
those  of  drunken  old  Eccles. 


[  147] 


N'-  1 8 

What  is  "Art"? 


IN  former  years,  we  inquiring  youngsters  in 
foreign  studios  were  much  bewildered  by 
the  repetition  of  a  certain  phrase.  Discussion 
of  almost  any  picture  or  statue  was  (after  other 
forms  of  criticism  had  been  exhausted)  pretty 
sure  to  conclude  with,  "It's  all  very  well  in  its 
way,  but  it 's  not  Art."  Not  only  foolish  youths 
but  the  "masters"  themselves  constantly  ad 
vanced  this  opinion  to  crush  a  rival  or  belittle  a 
friend.  To  ardent  minds  seeking  for  the  light  and 
catching  at  every  thread  that  might  serve  as  a 
guide  out  of  perplexity,  this  vague  assertion  was 
confusing.  According  to  one  master,  the  eigh 
teenth-century  "school"  did  not  exist.  What  had 
been  produced  at  that  time  was  pleasing  enough 
to  the  eye,  but  "was  not  Art !"  In  the  opinion 
of  another,  Italian  music  might  amuse  or  cheer 
the  ignorant,  but  could  not  be  recognized  by 
serious  musicians. 

As  most  of  us  were  living  far  from  home  and 
friends  for  the  purpose  of  acquiring  the  rudi 
ments  of  art,  this  continual  sweeping  away  of  our 
foundations  was  discouraging.  What  was  the  use, 
we  sometimes  asked  ourselves,  of  toiling,  if  our 
work  was  to  be  cast  contemptuously  aside  by  the 
next  "school"  as  a  pleasing  trifle,  not  for  a  mo 
ment  to  be  taken  seriously  ?  How  was  one  to 


WHAT   IS    " 


find  out  the  truth  ?  Who  was  to  decide  when 
doctors  disagreed  ?  Where  was  the  rock  on 
which  an  earnest  student  might  lay  his  corner 
stone  without  the  misgiving  that  the  next  wave 
in  public  opinion  would  sap  its  base  and  cast  him 
and  his  ideals  out  again  at  sea  ? 

The  eighteenth-century  artists  and  the  Italian 
composers  had  been  sincere  and  convinced  that 
they  were  producing  works  of  art.  In  our  own 
day  the  idol  of  one  moment  becomes  the  jest 
of  the  next.  Was  there,  then,  no  fixed  law  ? 

The  short  period,  for  instance,  between  1875 
and  the  present  time  has  been  long  enough  for 
the  talent  of  one  painter  (Bastien- Lepage)  to  be 
discovered,  discussed,  lauded,  acclaimed,  then 
gradually  forgotten  and  decried.  During  the 
years  when  we  were  studying  in  Paris, that  young 
painter's  works  were  pronounced  by  the  critics 
and  their  following  to  be  the  last  development 
of  Art.  Museums  and  amateurs  vied  with  each 
other  in  acquiring  his  canvases.  Yet,  only  this 
spring,  while  dining  with  two  or  three  art  critics 
in  the  French  capital,  I  heard  Lepage's  name 
mentioned  and  his  works  recalled  with  the  smile 
that  is  accorded  to  those  who  have  hoodwinked 
the  public  and  passed  off  spurious  material  as  the 
real  thing. 

If  any  one  doubts  the  fleeting  nature  of  a  repu 
tation,  let  him  go  to  a  sale  of  modern  pictures 
and  note  the  prices  brought  by  the  favorites  of 
twenty  years  ago.  The  paintings  of  that  arch- 

[   H9  ] 


THE    W<ArS    OF 


priest,  Meissonier,  no  longer  command  the  sums 
that  eager  collectors  paid  for  them  a  score  of  years 
back.  When  a  great  European  critic  dares  assert, 
as  one  has  recently,  of  the  master's  "  1  8  1  5,"  that 
"everything  in  the  picture  appears  metallic,  ex 
cept  the  cannon  and  the  men's  helmets,"  the 
mighty  are  indeed  fallen  !  It  is  much  the  same 
thing  with  the  old  masters.  There  have  been 
fashions  in  them  as  in  other  forms  of  art.  Fifty 
years  ago  Rembrandt's  work  brought  but  small 
prices,  and  until  Henri  Rochefort  (during  his  ex 
ile)  began  to  write  up  the  English  school,  Rom- 
neys,  Lawrences,  and  Gainsboroughs  had  little 
market  value. 

The  result  is  that  most  of  us  are  as  far  away 
from  the  solution  of  that  vexed  question  "  What 
is  Art?"  at  forty  as  we  were  when  boys.  The 
majority  have  arranged  a  compromise  with  their 
consciences.  We  have  found  out  what  we  like 
(in  itself  no  mean  achievement),  and  beyond  such 
personal  preference,  are  shy  of  asserting  (as  we 
were  fond  of  doing  formerly)  that  such  and  such 
works  are  "Art,"  and  such  others,  while  pleas 
ing  and  popular,  lack  the  requisite  qualities. 

To  enquiring  minds,  sure  that  an  answer  to 
this  question  exists,  but  uncertain  where  to  look 
for  it,  the  fact  that  one  of  the  thinkers  of  the 
century  has,  in  a  recent  "Evangel,"  given  to  the 
world  a  definition  of  "Art,"  the  result  of  many 
years'  meditation,  will  be  received  with  joy. 
"Art,"  says  Tolstoi,  "is  simply  a  condition  of 


IS    « 


life.  It  is  any  form  of  expression  that  a  human 
being  employs  to  communicate  an  emotion  he 
has  experienced  to  a  fellow-mortal." 

An  author  who,  in  telling  his  hopes  and  sor 
rows,  amuses  or  saddens  a  reader,  has  in  just  so 
much  produced  a  work  of  art.  A  lover  who,  by 
the  sincerity  of  his  accent,  communicates  the 
flame  that  is  consuming  him  to  the  object  of 
his  adoration;  the  shopkeeper  who  inspires  a 
purchaser  with  his  own  admiration  for  an  objecl: 
on  sale;  the  baby  that  makes  its  joy  known  to  a 
parent — artists!  artists!  Brown,  Jones,  or  Rob 
inson,  the  moment  he  has  consciously  produced 
on  a  neighbor's  ear  or  eye  the  sensation  that  a 
sound  or  a  combination  of  colors  has  effected 
on  his  own  organs,  is  an  artist! 

Of  course  much  of  this  has  been  recognized 
through  all  time.  The  formula  in  which  Tolstoi 
has  presented  his  meditations  to  the  world  is, 
however,  so  fresh  that  it  comes  like  a  revelation, 
with  the  additional  merit  of  being  understood, 
with  little  or  no  mental  effort,  by  either  the  cas 
ual  reader,  who,  with  half-attention  attracted  by 
a  headline,  says  to  himself,  "'What  is  art?'  That 
looks  interesting!"  and  skims  lightly  down  the 
lines,  or  the  thinker  who,  after  perusing  Tolstoi's 
lucid  words,  lays  down  the  volume  with  a  sigh, 
and  murmurs  in  his  humiliation,  "Why  have  I 
been  all  these  years  seeking  in  the  clouds  for  what 
was  lying  ready  at  my  hand?" 

The  wide-reaching  definition  of  the  Russian 


THE    W^TS    OF    ME 


writer  has  the  effect  of  a  vigorous  blow  from  a 
pickaxe  at  the  foundations  of  a  shaky  and  too 
elaborate  edifice.  The  wordy  superstructure  of 
aphorisms  and  paradox  falls  to  the  ground,  dis 
closing  fair  "Truth,"  so  long  a  captive  within 
the  temple  creeled  in  her  honor.  As,  however, 
the  newly  freed  goddess  smiles  on  the  ignorant 
and  the  pedants  alike,  the  result  is  that  with  one 
accord  the  aesthetes  raise  a  howl!  "And  the 
'beautiful,'"  they  say,  "the  beautiful?  Can  there 
be  any  <  Art  '  without  the  '  Beautiful  '  ?  What  !  the 
little  greengrocer  at  the  corner  is  an  artist  be 
cause,  forsooth,  he  has  arranged  some  lettuce  and 
tomatoes  into  a  tempting  pile!  Anathema!  Art 
is  a  secret  known  only  to  the  initiated  few;  the 
vulgar  can  neither  understand  nor  appreciate  it! 
We  are  the  elect!  Our  mission  is  to  explain  what 
Art  is  and  point  out  her  beauty  to  a  coarse  and 
heedless  world.  Only  those  with  a  sense  of  the 
'beautiful'  should  be  allowed  to  enter  into  her 
sacred  presence." 

Here  the  expounders  of  "Art"  plunge  into 
a  sea  of  words,  offering  a  dozen  definitions  each 
more  obscure  than  its  predecessor,  all  of  which 
have  served  in  turn  as  watchwords  of  different 
"schools."  Tolstoi's  sweeping  truth  is  too  far- 
reaching  to  please  these  gentry.  Like  the  priests 
of  past  religions,  they  would  have  preferred  to 
keep  such  knowledge  as  they  had  to  themselves 
and  expound  it,  little  at  a  time,  to  the  ignorant. 
The  great  Russian  has  kicked  away  their  altar 

[  is*] 


WHAT   IS    «*f RT"? 


and  routed  the  false  gods,  whose  acolytes  will 
never  forgive  him. 

Those  of  my  readers  who  have  been  intimate 
with  painters,  actors,  or  musicians,  will  recall  with 
amusement  how  lightly  the  performances  of  an 
associate  are  condemned  by  the  brotherhood  as 
falling  short  of  the  high  standard  which  accord 
ing  to  these  wiseacres,  "Art"  exacts,  and  how 
sure  each  speaker  is  of  understanding  just  where 
a  brother  carries  his  "mote." 

Voltaire  once  avoided  giving  a  definition  of  the 
beautiful  by  saying,  "Ask  a  toad  what  his  ideas 
of  beauty  are.  He  will  indicate  the  particular 
female  toad  he  happens  to  admire  and  praise  her 
goggle-eyes  and  yellow  belly  as  the  perfection  of 
beauty!"  A  negro  from  Guiana  will  make  much 
the  same  unsatisfactory  answer,  so  the  old  philoso 
pher  recommends  us  not  to  be  didactic  on  sub 
jects  where  judgments  are  relative,  and  at  the 
same  time  without  appeal. 

Tolstoi  denies  that  an  idea  as  subtle  as  a  defi 
nition  of  Art  can  be  classified  by  pedants,  and 
proceeds  to  formulate  the  following  delightful 
axiom:  "A  principle  upon  which  no  two  people 
can  agree  does  not  exist."  A  truth  is  proved  by 
its  evidence  to  all.  Discussion  outside  of  that  is 
simply  beating  the  air.  Each  succeeding  "school" 
has  sounded  its  death-knell  by  asserting  that  cer 
tain  combinations  alone  produced  beauty — the 
weakness  of  to-day  being  an  inclination  to  see  art 
only  in  the  obscure  and  the  recondite.  As  a  result 

[  153  ] 


THE    W^TS    OF 


we  drift  each  hour  further  from  the  truth.  Mod 
ern  intellectuality  has  formed  itself  into  a  scorn 
ful  aristocracy  whose  members,  esteeming  them 
selves  the  elite,  withdraw  from  the  vulgar  public, 
and  live  in  a  world  of  their  own,  looking  (like 
the  Lady  of  Shalott)  into  a  mirror  at  distorted 
images  of  nature  and  declaring  that  what  they  see 
is  art! 

In  literature  that  which  is  difficult  to  under 
stand  is  much  admired  by  the  simple-minded,  who 
also  decry  pictures  that  tell  their  own  story  !  A 
certain  class  of  minds  enjoy  being  mystified,  and 
in  consequence  writers,  painters,  and  musicians 
have  appeared  who  are  willing  to  juggle  for  their 
amusement.  The  simple  definition  given  to  us  by 
the  Russian  writer  comes  like  a  breath  of  whole 
some  air  to  those  suffocating  in  an  atmosphere  of 
perfumes  and  artificial  heat.  Art  is  our  common 
inheritance,  not  the  property  of  a  favored  few. 
The  wide  world  we  love  is  full  of  it,  and  each  of 
us  in  his  humble  way  is  an  artist  when  with  a 
full  heart  he  communicates  his  delight  and  his 
joy  to  another.  Tolstoi  has  given  us  back  our 
birthright,  so  long  withheld,  and  crowned  with 
his  aged  hands  the  true  artist. 


[  154] 


N°-  19 

The  Genealogical  Craze 

THERE  undoubtedly  is  something  in 
the  American  temperament  that  pre 
vents  our  doing  anything  in  moderation. 
If  we  take  up  an  idea,  it  is  immediately  run  to 
exaggeration  and  then  abandoned,  that  the  nation 
may  fly  at  a  tangent  after  some  new  fad.  Does  this 
come  from  our  climate,  or  (as  I  am  inclined  to 
think)  from  the  curiously  unclassified  state  of 
society  in  our  country,  where  so  few  established 
standards  exist  and  so  few  are  sure  of  their  own 
or  their  neighbors'  standing?  In  consequence, 
if  Mrs.  Brown  starts  anything,  Mrs.  Jones,  for 
fear  of  being  left  behind,  immediately  "goes  her 
one  better,"  to  be  in  turn  "raised"  by  Mrs. 
Robinson. 

In  other  lands  a  reasonable  pride  of  birth  has 
always  been  one  of  the  bonds  holding  communi 
ties  together,  and  is  estimated  at  its  just  value. 
We,  after  having  practically  ignored  the  subject 
for  half  a  century,  suddenly  rush  to  the  other 
extreme,  and  develop  an  entire  forest  of  genea 
logical  trees  at  a  growth. 

Chagrined,  probably,  at  the  small  amount 
of  consideration  that  their  superior  birth  com 
manded,  a  number  of  aristocratically  minded 
matrons  united  a  few  years  ago  as  "  Daughters  of 
the  Revolution,"  restricting  membership  to  wo- 

[  155] 


THE    W^tTS    OF 


men  descended  from  officers  of  Washington's 
army.  There  may  have  been  a  reason  for  the 
formation  of  this  society.  I  say  "may"  because  it 
does  not  seem  quite  clear  what  its  aim  was.  The 
originators  doubtless  imagined  they  were  found 
ing  an  exclusive  circle,  out  the  numbers  who 
clamored  for  admittance  quickly  dispelled  this 
illusion.  So  a  small  group  of  the  elect  withdrew  in 
disgust  and  banded  together  under  the  cogno 
men  of  "Colonial  Dames." 

The  only  result  of  these  two  movements  was 
to  awaken  envy,  hatred,  and  malice  in  the  hearts 
of  those  excluded  from  the  mysterious  rites, 
which  to  outsiders  seemed  to  consist  in  black 
balling  as  many  aspirants  as  possible.  Some  vic 
tims  of  this  bad  treatment,  thirsting  for  revenge, 
struck  on  the  happy  thought  of  inaugurating  an 
"Aztec"  society.  As  that  title  conveyed  abso 
lutely  no  idea  to  any  one,  its  members  were  forced 
to  explain  that  only  descendants  of  officers  who 
fought  in  the  Mexican  War  were  eligible.  What 
the  elect  did  when  they  got  into  the  circle  was 
not  specified. 

The  "  Social  Order  of  Foreign  Wars  "  was  the 
next  creation,  its  authors  evidently  considering 
the  Mexican  campaign  as  a  domestic  article,  a 
sort  of  family  squabble.  Then  the  "  Children  of 
1812"  attracted  attention,  both  groups  having 
immediate  success.  Indeed,  the  vogue  of  these 
enterprises  has  been  in  inverse  ratio  to  their  use 
fulness  or  raison  d'etre,  people  apparently  being 

[  156] 


THE    gEN EALOGIC AL    CRAZE 

ready  to  join  anything  rather  than  get  left  out  in 
the  cold. 

Jealous  probably  of  seeing  women  enjoying  all 
the  fun,  their  husbands  and  brothers  next  banded 
together  as  "Sons  of  the  Revolution."  The  wives 
retaliated  by  instituting  the  "  Granddaughters  of 
the  Revolution"  and  "The  Mayflower  Order," 
the  "price  of  admission"  to  the  latter  being  de 
scent  from  some  one  who  crossed  in  that  cele 
brated  ship — whether  as  one  of  the  crew  or  as 
passenger  is  not  clear. 

It  was  not,  however,  in  the  American  temper 
ament  to  rest  content  with  modest  beginnings, 
the  national  motto  being,  "The  best  is  good 
enough  for  me."  So  wind  was  quickly  taken 
out  of  the  Mayflower's  sails  by  "The  Royal 
Order  of  the  Crown,"  to  which  none  need  apply 
who  were  not  prepared  to  prove  descent  from 
one  or  more  royal  ancestors.  It  was  not  stated  in 
the  prospectus  whether  Irish  sovereigns  and  Fiji 
Island  kings  counted,  but  I  have  been  told  that 
bar  sinisters  form  a  class  apart,  and  are  deprived 
of  the  right  to  vote  or  hold  ofHce. 

Descent  from  any  old  king  was,  however,  not 
sufficient  for  the  high-toned  people  of  our  re 
public.  When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  such  a 
circle  might  be  "mixed."  One  really  must  draw 
the  line  somewhere  (as  the  Boston  parvenu  re 
plied  when  asked  why  he  had  not  invited  his 
brother  to  a  ball).  So  the  founders  of  the  "Circle 
of  Holland  Dames  of  the  New  Netherlands" 

[  '57  ] 


THE    IVdYS    OF 


drew  the  line  at  descent  from  a  sovereign  of  the 
Low  Countries.  It  does  not  seem  as  if  this  could 
be  a  large  society,  although  those  old  Dutch  pa 
shas  had  an  unconscionable  number  of  children. 

The  promoters  of  this  enterprise  seem  never 
theless  to  have  been  fairly  successful,  for  they 
gave  a  fete  recently,  and  crowned  a  queen.  To 
be  acclaimed  their  sovereign  by  a  group  of  people 
all  of  royal  birth  is  indeed  an  honor.  Rumors  of 
this  ceremony  have  come  to  us  outsiders.  It  is 
said  that  they  employed  only  lineal  descendants  of 
Vatel  to  prepare  their  banquet,  and  I  am  assured 
that  an  offspring  of  Gambrinus  acted  as  butler. 

But  it  is  wrong  to  joke  on  this  subject.  The 
state  of  affairs  is  becoming  too  serious.  When  sane 
human  beings  form  a  "Baronial  Order  of  Runny- 
mede,"  and  announce  in  their  prospectus  that  only 
descendants  through  the  male  line  from  one  (or 
more)  of  the  forty  noblemen  who  forced  King 
John  to  sign  the  Magna  Charta  are  what  our 
Washington  Mrs.  Malaprop  would  call  "legi 
ble,"  the  action  attests  a  diseased  condition  of 
the  community.  Any  one  taking  the  trouble  to 
remember  that  eight  of  the  original  barons  died 
childless,  and  that  the  Wars  of  the  Roses  swept 
away  nine  tenths  of  what  families  the  others  may 
have  had,  that  only  one  man  in  England  (Lord 
de  Ros)  can  at  the  present  day  prove  male  de 
scent  further  back  than  the  eleventh  century, 
must  appreciate  the  absurdity  of  our  compatriots' 
pretensions.  Burke's  Peerage  is  acknowledged 

[  158  ] 


THE    GENEALOGICAL    CRAZE 

to  be  the  most  "faked"  volume  in  the  English 
language,  but  the  descents  it  attributes  are  like 
mathematical  demonstrations  compared  to  the 
"trees"  that  members  of  these  new  American 
orders  climb. 

When  my  class  was  graduated  from  Mr. 
McMullen's  school,  we  little  boys  had  the 
brilliant  idea  of  uniting  in  a  society,  but  were 
greatly  put  about  for  an  effective  name,  hitting 
finally  upon  that  of  Ancient  Seniors'  Society. 
For  a  group  of  infants,  this  must  be  acknowl 
edged  to  have  been  a  luminous  inspiration.  We 
had  no  valid  reason  for  forming  that  society,  not 
being  particularly  fond  of  each  other.  Living  in 
several  cities,  we  rarely  met  after  leaving  school, 
and  had  little  to  say  to  each  other  when  we  did. 
But  it  sounded  so  fine  to  be  an  "Ancient  Senior," 
and  we  hoped  in  our  next  school  to  impress  new 
companions  with  that  title  and  make  them  feel 
proper  respect  for  us  in  consequence.  Pride,  how 
ever,  sustained  a  fall  when  it  was  pointed  out 
that  the  initials  formed  the  ominous  word"  Ass." 

I  have  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  the  motives 
which  prompted  our  youthful  actions  are  not 
very  different  from  those  now  inciting  children 
of  a  larger  growth  to  band  together,  blackball 
their  friends,  crown  queens,  and  perform  other 
senseless  mummeries,  such  as  having  the  weath 
ercock  of  a  departed  meeting-house  brought  in 
during  a  banquet,  and  dressing  restaurant  waiters 
in  knickerbockers  for  "one  night  only." 

[  >59  ] 


THE    ir*ArS    OF 


This  malarial  condition  of  our  social  atmos 
phere  accounts  for  the  quantity  of  genealogical 
quacks  that  have  taken  to  sending  typewritten 
letters,  stating  that  the  interest  they  take  in  your 
private  affairs  compels  them  to  offer  proof  of 
your  descent  from  any  crowned  head  to  whom 
you  may  have  taken  a  fancy.  One  correspondent 
assured  me  only  this  month  that  he  had  papers 
in  his  possession  showing  beyond  a  doubt  that 
I  might  claim  a  certain  King  McDougal  of  Scot 
land  for  an  ancestor.  I  have  misgivings,  however, 
as  to  the  quality  of  the  royal  blood  in  my  veins, 
for  the  same  correspondent  was  equally  confident 
six  months  ago  that  my  people  came  in  direct 
line  from  Charlemagne.  As  I  have  no  desire  to 
"corner"  the  market  in  kings,  these  letters  have 
remained  unanswered. 

Considering  the  mania  to  trace  descent  from 
illustrious  men,  it  astonishes  me  that  a  Mystic 
Band,  consisting  of  lineal  descendants  from  the 
Seven  Sages  of  Greece,  has  not  before  now  burst 
upon  an  astonished  world.  It  has  been  suggested 
that  if  some  one  wanted  to  organize  a  truly  re 
stricted  circle,  "The  Grandchildren  of  our  Trip 
oli  War  "  would  be  an  excellent  title.  So  few  Amer 
icans  took  part  in  that  conflict  —  and  still  fewer 
know  anything  about  it  —  that  the  satisfaction 
of  joining  the  society  would  be  immense  to  ex 
clusively-minded  people. 

There  is  only  one  explanation  that  seems  in 
any  way  to  account  for  this  vast  tomfoolery.  A 

[  160] 


THE    QENEALOGICAL    CRAZE 

little  sentence,  printed  at  the  bottom  of  a  pros 
pectus  recently  sent  to  me,  lets  the  ambitious  cat 
out  of  the  genealogical  bag.  It  states  that  "social 
position  is  assured  to  people  joining  our  order." 
Thanks  to  the  idiotic  habit  some  newspapers 
have  inaugurated  of  advertising,  gratis,  a  number 
of  self-elected  society  "leaders,"  many  feeble 
minded  people,  with  more  ambition  than  cash, 
and  a  larger  supply  of  family  papers  than  brains, 
have  been  bitten  with  a  social  madness,  and  enter 
these  traps,  thinking  they  are  the  road  to  position 
and  honors.  The  number  of  fools  is  larger  than 
one  would  have  believed  possible,  if  the  success 
of  so  many  "  orders,"  "  circles,"  "  commanderies," 
and  "regencies"  were  not  there  to  testify  to  the 
unending  folly  of  the  would-be  "smart." 

This  last  decade  of  the  century  has  brought 
to  light  many  strange  fads  and  senseless  manias. 
The  "descent"  craze,  however,  surpasses  them 
all  in  inanity.  The  keepers  of  insane  asylums  will 
tell  you  that  one  of  the  hopeless  forms  of  mad 
ness  is  lafolie  des  grandeurs.  A  breath  of  this  de 
lirium  seems  to  be  blowing  over  our  country. 
Crowns  and  sceptres  haunt  the  dreams  of  simple 
republican  men  and  women,  troubling  their  slum 
bers  and  leading  them  a  will-o'-the-wisp  dance 
back  across  the  centuries. 


[  161  ] 


20 


As  the  Twig  is  Bent 


I  KNEW,  in  my  youth,  a  French  village  far 
up  among  the  Cevennes  Mountains,  where 
the  one  cultivated  man  of  the  place,  sad 
dened  by  the  unlovely  lives  of  the  peasants 
around  him  and  by  the  bare  walls  of  the  village 
school,  organized  evening  classes  for  the  boys. 
During  these  informal  hours,  he  talked  to  them 
of  literature  and  art  and  showed  them  his  prints 
and  paintings.  When  the  youths'  interest  was 
aroused  he  lent  them  books,  that  they  might  read 
about  the  statues  and  buildings  that  had  attracted 
their  attention.  At  first  it  appeared  a  hopeless 
task  to  arouse  any  interest  among  these  peasants 
in  subjects  not  bearing  on  their  abject  lives.  To 
talk  with  boys  of  the  ideal,  when  their  poor  bodies 
were  in  need  of  food  and  raiment,  seemed  super 
fluous;  but  in  time  the  charm  worked,  as  it  al 
ways  will.  The  beautiful  appealed  to  their  simple 
natures,  elevating  and  refining  them,  and  open 
ing  before  their  eager  eyes  perspectives  of  un 
dreamed-of  interest.  The  self-imposed  task  be 
came  a  delight  as  his  pupils'  minds  responded  to 
his  efforts.  Although  death  soon  ended  his  use 
ful  life,  the  seed  planted  grew  and  bore  fruit  in 
many  humble  homes. 

At  this  moment  I  know  men  in  several  walks 
of  life  who  revere  with  touching  devotion  the 


THE    rwi        IS    <BENT 


memory  of  the  one  human  being  who  had  brought 
to  them,  at  the  moment  when  they  were  most  im 
pressionable,  the  gracious  message  that  existence 
was  not  merely  a  struggle  for  bread.  The  boys  he 
had  gathered  around  him  realize  now  that  the  en 
couragement  and  incentive  received  from  those 
evening  glimpses  of  noble  works  existing  in  the 
world  was  the  mainspring  of  their  subsequent 
development  and  a  source  of  infinite  pleasure 
through  all  succeeding  years. 

This  reference  to  an  individual  effort  toward 
cultivating  the  poor  has  been  made  because  other 
delicate  spirits  are  attempting  some  such  task  in 
our  city,  where  quite  as  much  as  in  the  French 
village  schoolchildren  stand  in  need  of  some  mes 
sage  of  beauty  in  addition  to  the  instruction  they 
receive,  —  some  window  opened  for  them,  as  it 
were,  upon  the  fields  of  art,  that  their  eyes  when- 
raised  from  study  or  play  may  rest  on  objecls 
more  inspiring  than  blank  walls  and  the  grace- 
Jess  surroundings  of  street  or  schoolroom. 

We  are  far  too  quick  in  assuming  that  love  of 
the  beautiful  is  confined  to  the  highly  educated; 
that  the  poor  have  no  desire  to  surround  them 
selves  with  graceful  forms  and  harmonious  colors. 
We  wonder  at  and  deplore  their  crude  standards, 
bewailing  the  general  lack  of  taste  and  the  gradual 
reducing  of  everything  to  a  commonplace  money 
basis.  We  smile  at  the  efforts  toward  adornment 
attempted  by  the  poor,  taking  it  too  readily  for 
granted  that  on  this  point  they  are  beyond  re- 


THE    WtATS    OF 


demption.  This  error  is  the  less  excusable  as  so 
little  has  been  done  by  way  of  experiment  be 
fore  forming  an  opinion,  —  whole  classes  being 
put  down  as  inferior  beings,  incapable  of  appre 
ciation,  before  they  have  been  allowed  even  a 
glimpse  of  the  works  of  art  that  form  the  daily 
mental  food  of  their  judges. 

The  portly  charlady  who  rules  despotically  in 
my  chambers  is  an  example.  It  has  been  a  curious 
study  to  watch  her  growing  interest  in  the  objects 
that  have  here  for  the  first  time  come  under  her 
notice;  the  delight  she  has  come  to  take  in  dust 
ing  and  arranging  my  belongings,  and  her  enthu 
siasm  at  any  new  acquisition.  Knowing  how  bare 
her  own  home  was,  I  felt  at  first  only  astonish 
ment  at  her  vivid  interest  in  what  seemed  beyond 
her  comprehension,  but  now  realize  that  in  some 
blind  way  she  appreciates  the  rare  and  the  delicate 
quite  as  much  as  my  more  cultivated  visitors.  At 
the  end  of  one  laborious  morning,  when  every 
thing  was  arranged  to  her  satisfaction,  she  turned 
to  me  her  poor,  plain  face,  lighted  up  with  an  ex 
pression  of  delight,  and  exclaimed,  "Oh,  sir,  I  do 
love  to  work  in  these  rooms  !  I  'm  never  so  happy 
as  when  I  'm  arranging  them  elegant  things  !  " 
And,  although  my  pleasure  in  her  pleasure  was 
modified  by  the  discovery  that  she  had  taken 
an  eighteenth-century  comb  to  disentangle  the 
fringes  of  a  rug,  and  broken  several  of  its  teeth 
in  her  ardor,  that  she  invariably  placed  a  certain 
Whister  etching  upside  down,  and  then  stood  in 

[  164] 


THE    TWi       IS    <BENT 


rapt  admiration  before  it,  still,  in  watching  her 
enthusiasm,  I  felt  a  thrill  of  satisfaction  at  seeing 
how  her  untaught  taste  responded  to  a  contact 
with  good  things. 

Here  in  America,  and  especially  in  our  city, 
which  we  have  been  at  such  pains  to  make  as 
hideous  as  possible,  the  schoolrooms,  where  hun 
dreds  of  thousands  of  children  pass  many  hours 
daily,  are  one  degree  more  graceless  than  the 
town  itself;  themost  artistically  inclined  child  can 
hardly  receive  any  but  unfortunate  impressions. 
The  other  day  a  friend  took  me  severely  to  task 
for  rating  our  American  women  on  their  love  of 
the  big  shops,  and  gave  me,  I  confess,  an  entirely 
new  idea  on  the  subject.  "Can't  you  see,"  she 
said,  "that  the  shops  here  are  what  the  museums 
abroad  are  to  the  poor?  It  is  in  them  only  that 
certain  people  may  catch  glimpses  of  the  dainty 
and  exquisite  manufactures  of  other  countries. 
The  little  education  their  eyes  receive  is  obtained 
during  visits  to  these  emporiums." 

If  this  is  so,  and  it  seems  probable,  it  only 
proves  how  the  humble  long  for  something  more 
graceful  than  their  meagre  homes  afford. 

In  the  hope  of  training  the  younger  genera 
tions  to  better  standards  and  less  vulgar  ideals,  a 
group  of  ladies  are  making  an  attempt  to  surround 
our  schoolchildren  during  their  impressionable 
youth  with  reproductions  of  historic  masterpieces, 
and  have  already  decorated  many  schoolrooms  in 
this  way.  For  a  modest  sum  it  is  possible  to  tint 

[  "65] 


THE    W^fTS    OF 


the  bare  walls  an  attractive  color  —  a  delight  in 
itself  —  and  adorn  them  with  plaster  casts  of  sta 
tues  and  solar  prints  of  pictures  and  buildings. 
The  transformation  that  fifty  or  sixty  dollars  judi 
ciously  expended  in  this  way  produces  in  a  school 
room  is  beyond  belief,  and,  as  the  advertisements 
say,  "must  be  seen  to  be  appreciated,"  giving  an 
air  of  cheerfulness  and  refinement  to  the  dreariest 
apartment. 

It  is  hard  to  make  people  understand  the  en 
thusiasm  these  decorations  have  excited  in  both 
teachers  and  pupils.  The  directress  of  one  of  our 
large  schools  was  telling  me  of  the  help  and  pleas 
ure  the  prints  and  casts  had  been  to  her;  she  had 
given  them  as  subjects  for  the  class  composi 
tions,  and  used  them  in  a  hundred  different  ways 
as  object-lessons.  As  the  children  are  graduated 
from  room  to  room,  a  great  variety  of  high-class 
subjects  can  be  brought  to  their  notice  by  vary 
ing  the  decorations. 

It  is  by  the  eye  principally  that  taste  is  edu 
cated.  We  speak  with  admiration  of  the  "eighth 
sense  "common  among  Parisians,  and  envy  them 
their  magic  power  of  combining  simple  materials 
into  an  artistic  whole.  The  reason  is  that  for 
generations  the  eyes  of  those  people  have  been 
unconsciously  educated  by  the  harmonious  lines 
of  well-proportioned  buildings,  finely  finished 
detail  of  stately  colonnade,  and  shady  perspective 
of  quay  and  boulevard.  After  years  of  this  subtle 
training  the  eye  instinctively  revolts  from  the  vul- 
[  '66  ] 


THE    rWl       IS    'BENT 


gar  and  the  crude.  There  is  little  in  the  poorer 

&  r  •     '  r  i 

quarters  of  our  city  to  rejoice  or  refine  the  senses; 
squalor  and  all-pervading  ugliness  are  not  least 
among  the  curses  that  poverty  entails. 

If  you  have  a  subject  of  interest  in  your  mind, 
it  often  happens  that  every  book  you  open,  every 
person  you  speak  with,  refers  to  that  topic.  I  never 
remember  having  seen  an  explanation  offered  of 
this  phenomenon. 

The  other  morning,  while  this  article  was  ly 
ing  half  finished  on  my  desk,  I  opened  the  last 
number  of  a  Paris  paper  and  began  reading  an  ac 
count  of  the  drama,  Les  Mauvais  Eergers  (treat 
ing  of  that  perilous  subject,  the  "  strikes  "),  which 
Sarah  Bernhardt  had  just  had  the  courage  to  pro 
duce  before  the  Paris  public.  In  the  third  act, 
when  the  owner  of  the  factory  receives  the  disaf 
fected  hands,  and  listens  to  their  complaints,  the 
leader  of  the  strike  (an  intelligent  young  work 
man),  besides  shorter  hours  and  increased  pay, 
demands  that  recreation  rooms  be  built  where  the 
toilers,  their  wives,  and  their  children  may  pass 
unoccupied  hours  in  the  enjoyment  of  attractive 
surroundings,  and  cries  in  conclusion:  "We,  the 
poor,  need  some  poetry  and  some  art  in  our  lives, 
for,  indigent  as  he  may  be,  man  does  not  live  by 
bread  alone.  He  has  a  right,  like  the  rich,  to  things 
of  beauty!" 

In  commending  the  use  of  decoration  as  a 
means  of  bringing  pleasure  into  dull,  cramped 
lives,  one  is  too  often  met  by  the  curious  argu- 

[  -67  ] 


THE    W^TS    OF 


ment  that  taste  is  innate.  "Either  people  have 
it  or  they  have  n't,"  like  a  long  nose  or  a  short 
one,  and  it  is  useless  to  waste  good  money  in 
trying  to  improve  either.  "It  would  be  much 
more  to  the  point  to  spend  your  money  in  giving 
the  poor  children  a  good  roast-beef  dinner  at 
Christmas  than  in  placing  the  bust  of  Clytie  be 
fore  them."  That  argument  has  crushed  more  at 
tempts  to  elevate  the  poor  than  any  other  ever 
advanced.  If  it  were  listened  to,  there  would 
never  be  any  progress  made,  because  there  are 
always  thousands  of  people  who  are  hungry. 

When  we  reflect  how  painfully  ill-arranged 
rooms  or  ugly  colors  affect  our  senses,  and  re 
member  that  less  fortunate  neighbors  suffer  as 
much  as  we  do  from  hideous  environments,  it 
seems  like  keeping  sunlight  from  a  plant,  or  fresh 
air  out  of  a  sick-room,  to  refuse  glimpses  of  the 
beautiful  to  the  poor  when  it  is  in  our  power  to 
give  them  this  satisfaction  with  a  slight  effort. 
Nothing  can  be  more  encouraging  to  those  who 
occasionally  despair  of  human  nature  than  the 
good  results  already  obtained  by  this  small  at 
tempt  in  the  schools. 

We  fall  into  the  error  of  imagining  that  be 
cause  the  Apollo  Belvedere  and  the  Square  of  St. 
Mark's  have  become  stale  to  us  by  reproduction 
they  are  necessarily  so  to  others.  The  great  and 
the  weal  thy  of  the  world  form  no  idea  of  the  long 
ing  the  poor  feel  for  a  little  variety  in  their  lives. 
They  do  not  know  what  they  want.  They  have 
[  '68  ] 


THE    rwi       IS    'BENT 


no  standards  to  guide  them,  but  the  desire  is 
there.  Let  us  offer  ourselves  the  satisfaction,  as 
we  start  off  for  pleasure  trips  abroad  or  to  the 
mountains,  of  knowing  that  at  home  the  routine 
of  study  is  lightened  for  thousands  of  children 
by  the  counterfeit  presentment  of  the  scenes  we 
are  enjoying;  that,  as  we  float  up  the  Golden 
Horn  or  sit  in  the  moonlight  by  the  Parthe 
non,  far  away  at  home  some  child  is  dreaming  of 
those  fair  scenes  as  she  raises  her  eyes  from  her 
task,  and  is  unconsciously  imbibing  a  love  of  the 
beautiful,  which  will  add  a  charm  to  her  humble 
life,  and  make  the  present  labors  lighter.  If  the 
child  never  lives  to  see  the  originals,  she  will  be 
happier  for  knowing  that  somewhere  in  the 
world  domed  mosques  mirror  themselves  in  still 
waters,  and  marble  gods,  the  handiwork  of  long- 
dead  nations,  stand  in  the  golden  sunlight  and 
silently  preach  the  gospel  of  the  beautiful. 


[   169  ] 


N°-   21 

Seven  Small  Duchesses 


SINCE  those  "precious"  days  when  the 
habitues  of  the  Hotel  Rambouillet  first 
raised  social  intercourse  to  the  level  of  a 
fine  art,  the  morals  and  manners,  the  amuse 
ments  and  intrigues  of  great  French  ladies  have 
interested  the  world  and  influenced  the  ways  of 
civilized  nations.  Thanks  to  Memoirs  and  Max 
ims,  we  are  able  to  reconstruct  the  life  of  a  sev 
enteenth  or  eighteenth  century  noblewoman  as 
completely  as  German  archaeologists  have  re 
built  the  temple  of  the  Wingless  Victory  on  the 
Acropolis  from  surrounding  debris. 

Interest  in  French  society  has,  however, 
diminished  during  this  century,  ceasing  almost 
entirely  with  the  Second  Empire,  when  foreign 
women  gave  the  tone  to  a  parvenu  court  from- 
which  the  older  aristocracy  held  aloof  in  disgust 
behind  the  closed  gates  of  their  "  hotels  "  and  his 
toric  chateaux. 

With  the  exception  of  Balzac,  few  writers  have 
drawn  authentic  pictures  of  nineteenth-century 
noblewomen  in  France;  and  his  vivid  portrayals 
are  more  the  creations  of  genius  than  correct  de 
scriptions  of  a  caste. 

During  the  last  fifty  years  French  aristocrats 
have  ceased  to  be  factors  even  in  matters  social, 
the  sceptre  they  once  held  having  passed  into 


SMALL    <DUCHESSES 


alien  hands,  the  daughters  of  Albion  to  a  great 
extent  replacing  their  French  rivals  in  influenc 
ing  the  ways  of  the  "world,"  —  a  change,  be  it 
remarked  in  passing,  that  has  not  improved  the 
tone  of  society  or  contributed  to  the  spread  of 
good  manners. 

People  like  the  French  nobles,  engaged  in  sulk 
ing  and  attempting  to  overthrow  or  boycott  each 
succeeding  regime,  must  naturally  lose  their  in 
fluence.  They  have  held  aloof  so  long  —  fearing 
to  compromise  themselves  by  any  advances  to 
the  powers  that  be,  and  restrained  by  countless 
traditions  from  taking  an  active  part  in  either  the 
social  or  political  strife  —  that  little  by  little  they 
have  been  passed  by  and  ignored;  which  is  a  pity, 
for  amid  the  ruin  of  many  hopes  and  ambitions 
they  have  remained  true  to  their  caste  and  handed 
down  from  generation  to  generation  the  secret 
of  that  gracious  urbanity  and  tad:  which  distin 
guished  the  Gallic  noblewoman  in  the  last  cen 
tury  from  the  rest  of  her  kind  and  made  her  so 
deft  in  the  difficult  art  of  pleasing  —  and  being 
pleased. 

Within  the  last  few  years  there  have,  however, 
been  signs  of  a  change.  Young  members  of  his 
toric  houses  show  an  amusing  inclination  to  es 
cape  from  their  austere  surroundings  and  resume 
the  place  their  grandparents  abdicated.  If  it  is 
impossible  to  rule  as  formerly,  they  at  any  rate 
intend  to  get  some  fun  out  of  existence. 

This  joyous  movement  to  the  front  is  being 


THE    WtATS    OF    314  E 


made  by  the  young  matrons  enlisted  under  the 
"  Seven  little  duchesses'  "  banner.  Oddly  enough, 
a  baker's  half-dozen  of  ducal  coronets  are  worn 
at  this  moment,  in  France,  by  small  and  sprightly 
women,  who  have  shaken  the  dust  of  centuries 
from  those  ornaments  and  sport  them  with  a  de 
cidedly  modern  air! 

It  is  the  members  of  this  clique  who,  in  Paris 
during  the  spring,  at  their  chateaux  in  the  sum 
mer  and  autumn,  and  on  the  Riviera  after  Christ 
mas,  lead  the  amusements  and  strike  the  key  for 
the  modern  French  world. 

No  one  of  these  light-hearted  ladies  takes  any 
particular  precedence  over  the  others.  All  are 
young,  and  some  are  wonderfully  nice  to  look 
at.  The  Duchesse  d'Uzes  is,  perhaps,  the  hand 
somest,  good  looks  being  an  inheritance  from  her 
mother,  the  beautiful  and  wayward  Duchesse  de 
Chaulme. 

There  is  a  vivid  grace  about  the  daughter,  an 
intense  vitality  that  suggests  some  beautiful  be 
ing  of  the  forest.  As  she  moves  and  speaks  one 
almost  expects  to  hear  the  quick  breath  coming 
and  going  through  her  quivering  nostrils,  and 
see  foam  on  her  full  lips.  Her  mother's  tragic 
death  has  thrown  a  glamor  of  romance  around 
the  daughter's  life  that  heightens  the  witchery 
of  her  beauty. 

Next  in  good  looks  comes  an  American,  the 
Duchesse  de  la  Rochefoucauld,  although  mar 
riage  (which,  as  de  Maupassant  remarked,  is  rarely 


SMALL    <DUCHESSES 


becoming)  has  not  been  propitious  to  that  gentle 
lady.  By  rights  she  should  have  been  mentioned 
first,  as  her  husband  outranks,  not  only  all  the 
men  of  his  age,  but  also  his  cousin,  the  old  Due 
de  la  Rochefoucauld-Doudeauville,  to  whom, 
however,  a  sort  of  brevet  rank  is  accorded  on 
account  of  his  years,  his  wealth,  and  the  high  rank 
of  his  two  wives.  It  might  almost  be  asserted  that 
our  fair  compatriot  wears  the  oldest  coronet  in 
France.  She  certainly  is  mistress  of  three  of  the 
finest  chateaux  in  that  country,  among  which  is 
Miromail,  where  the  family  live,  and  Liancourt, 
a  superb  Renaissance  structure,  a  delight  to  the 
artist's  soul. 

The  young  Duchesse  de  Brissac  runs  her  two 
comrades  close  as  regards  looks.  Brissac  is  the 
son  of  Mme.  de  Tredern,  whom  Newporters 
will  remember  two  years  ago,  when  she  enjoyed 
some  weeks  of  our  summer  season.  Their  chateau 
was  built  by  the  Brissac  of  Henri  IV.'s  time  and 
is  one  of  the  few  that  escaped  uninjured  through 
the  Revolution,  its  vast  stone  corridors  and  mas 
sive  oak  ceilings,  its  moat  and  battlements,  stand 
ing  to-day  unimpaired  amid  a  group  of  chateaux 
including  Chaumont,  Rochecotte,  Azay-le-Ri- 
deau,  Usse,  Chenonceau,  within  "dining"  dis 
tance  of  each  other,  that  form  a  centre  of  gayety 
next  in  importance  to  Paris  and  Cannes.  In  the 
autumn  these  spacious  castles  are  filled  with  joy 
ous  bands  and  their  ample  stables  with  horses. 
A  couple  of  years  ago,  when  the  king  of  Portu- 

[   173  ] 


THE    f^^frS    OF    ME 


gal  and  his  suite  were  entertained  at  Chaumont 
for  a  week  of  stag-hunting,  over  three  hundred 
people,  servants,  and  guests,  slept  under  its  roof, 
and  two  hundred  horses  were  housed  in  its 
stables. 

The  Due  de  Luynes  and  his  wife,  who  was 
Mile,  de  Crussol  (daughter  of  the  brilliant  Du- 
chesse  d'Uzes  of  Boulanger  fame),  live  at  Dam- 
pierre,  another  interesting  pile  filled  with  rare 
pictures,  bric-a-brac,  and  statuary,  first  among 
which  is  Jean  Goujon's  life-sized  statue  (in  sil 
ver)  of  Louis  XIII.,  presented  by  that  monarch 
to  his  favorite,  the  founder  of  the  house.  This 
gem  of  the  Renaissance  stands  in  an  octagonal 
chamber  hung  in  dark  velvet,  unique  among 
statues.  It  has  been  shown  but  once  in  public, 
at  the  Loan  Exhibition  in  1872,  when  the  patri 
otic  nobility  lent  their  treasures  to  collecl:  a  fund 
for  the  Alsace-Lorraine  exiles. 

The  Duchesse  de  Noailles,  nee  Mile,  de 
Luynes,  is  another  of  this  coterie  and  one  of 
the  few  French  noblewomen  who  has  travelled. 
Many  Americans  will  remember  the  visit  she 
made  here  with  her  mother  some  years  ago,  and 
the  efFecl:  her  girlish  grace  produced  at  that  time. 
The  de  Noailles'  chateau  of  Maintenon  is  an 
inheritance  from  Louis  XIV.'s  prudish  favorite, 
who  founded  and  enriched  the  de  Noailles  fam 
ily.  The  Due  and  Duchesse  d'Uzes  live  near 
by  at  Bonnelle  with  the  old  Due  de  Doudeau- 
ville,  her  grandfather,  who  is  also  the  grand- 

[  174] 


SMALL    'DUCHESSES 


father  of  Mme.  de  Noailles,  these  two  ladies 
being  descended  each  from  a  wife  of  the  old 
duke,  the  former  from  the  Princesse  de  Polignac 
and  the  latter  from  the  Princesse  de  Ligne. 

The  Duchesse  de  Bisaccia,  nee  Princesse  Rad- 
ziwill,  and  the  Duchesse  d'Harcourt,  who  com 
plete  the  circle  of  seven,  also  live  in  this  vicinity, 
where  another  group  of  historic  residences,  in 
cluding  Eclimont  and  Rambouillet,  the  summer 
home  of  the  president,  rivals  in  gayety  and  hos 
pitality  the  chateaux  of  the  Loire. 

No  coterie  in  England  or  in  this  country  cor 
responds  at  all  to  this  French  community.  Much 
as  they  love  to  amuse  themselves,  the  idea  of 
meeting  any  but  their  own  set  has  never  passed 
through  their  well-dressed  heads.  They  differ 
from  their  parents  in  that  they  have'broken  away 
from  many  antiquated  habits.  Their  houses  are 
no  longer  lay  hermitages,  and  their  opera  boxes 
are  regularly  filled,  but  no  foreigner  is  ever  re 
ceived,  no  ambitious  parvenu  accepted  among 
them.  Ostracism  here  means  not  a  ten  years'  exile, 
but  lifelong  banishment. 

The  contrast  is  strong  between  this  rigor  and 
the  enthusiasm  with  which  wealthy  new-comers 
are  welcomed  into  London  society  or  by  our 
own  upper  crust,  so  full  of  unpalatable  pieces  of 
dough.  This  exclusiveness  of  the  titled  French 
reminds  me  —  incongruously  enough  —  of  a  cer 
tain  arrangement  of  graves  in  a  Lenox  cemetery, 
where  the  members  of  an  old  New  England  family 

[  175] 


THE    IV^TS    OF    ME 


lie  buried  in  a  circle  with  their  feet  toward  its  cen 
tre.  When  I  asked,  many  years  ago,  the  reason  for 
this  arrangement,  a  wit  of  that  day  —  a  daughter, 
by  the  bye,  of  Mrs.  Stowe  —  replied,  "So  that 
when  they  rise  at  the  Last  Day  only  members  of 
their  own  family  may  face  them!" 

One  is  struck  by  another  peculiarity  of  these 
French  men  and  women  —  their  astonishing  pro 
ficiency  in  les  arts  d^agrement.  Every  Frenchwo 
man  of  any  pretensions  to  fashion  backs  her 
beauty  and  grace  with  some  art  in  which  she  is 
sure  to  be  proficient.  The  dowager  Duchesse 
d'Uzes  is  a  sculptor  of  mark,  and  when  during 
the  autumn  Mme.  de  Tredern  gives  opera  at 
Brissac,  she  finds  little  difficulty  in  recruiting  her 
troupe  from  among  the  youths  and  maidens  under 
her  roof  whose  musical  education  has  been  thor 
ough  enough  to  enable  them  to  sing  difficult 
music  in  public. 

Love  of  the  fine  arts  is  felt  in  their  conversa 
tion,  in  the  arrangement  and  decoration  of  their 
homes,  and  in  the  interest  that  an  exhibition  of 
pictures  or  old  furniture  will  excite.  Few  of  these 
people  but  are  habitues  of  the  Hotel  Drouot  and 
conversant  with  the  value  and  authenticity  of  the 
works  of  art  daily  sold  there.  Such  elements  com 
bine  to  form  an  atmosphere  that  does  not  exist  in 
any  other  country,  and  lends  an  interest  to  soci 
ety  in  France  which  it  is  far  from  possessing  else 
where. 

There  is  but  one  way  that  an  outsider  can 


SMALL    TtUCHESSES 


enter  this  Gallic  paradise.  By  marrying  into  it! 
Two  of  the  seven  ladies  in  question  lack  the 
quarterings  of  the  rest.  Miss  Mitchell  was  only 
a  charming  American  girl,  and  the  mother  of 
the  Princesse  Radziwill  was  Mile.  Blanc  of  Monte 
Carlo.  However,  as  in  most  religions  there  are 
ceremonies  that  purify,  so  in  this  case  the  sacra 
ment  of  marriage  is  supposed  to  have  recon 
structed  these  wives  and  made  them  genealogi 
cally  whole. 

There  is  something  incongruous  to  most  peo 
ple  in  the  idea  of  a  young  girl  hardly  out  of  the 
schoolroom  bearing  a  ponderous  title.  The  pomp 
and  circumstance  that  surround  historic  names 
conned:  them  (through  our  reading)  with  stately 
matrons  playing  the  "  heavy  female  "  roles  in  life's 
drama,  much  as  Lady  Macbeth's  name  evokes 
the  idea  of  a  raw-boned  mother-in-law  sort  of 
person,  the  reverse  of  attractive,  and  quite  the 
last  woman  in  the  world  to  egg  her  husband  on 
to  a  crime  —  unless  it  were  wife  murder! 

Names  like  de  Chevreuse,  or  de  la  Roche 
foucauld,  seem  appropriate  only  to  the  warlike 
amazons  of  the  Fronde,  or  corpulent  kill-joys  in 
powder  and  court  trains  of  the  Mme.  Etiquette 
school;  it  comes  as  a  shock,  on  being  presented 
to  a  group  of  girlish  figures  in  the  latest  cut  of 
golfing  skirts,  who  are  chattering  odds  on  the 
Grand  Prix  in  faultless  English,  to  realize  that 
these  light-hearted  gamines  are  the  present  own 
ers  of  sonorous  titles.  One  shudders  to  think 

[  '77  ] 


THE    W<ATS    OF 


what  would  have  been  the  effect  on  poor  Marie 
Antoinette's  priggish  mentor  could  she  have  fore 
seen  her  granddaughter,  clad  in  knickerbockers, 
running  a  petroleum  tricycle  in  the  streets  of 
Paris,  or  pedalling  "tandem"  across  country  be 
hind  some  young  cavalry  officer  of  her  connec 
tion. 

Let  no  simple-minded  American  imagine,  how 
ever,  that  these  up-to-date  women  are  waiting  to 
welcome  him  and  his  family  to  their  intimacy. 
The  world  outside  of  France  does  not  exist  for 
a  properly  brought  up  French  aristocrat.  Few 
have  travelled;  from  their  point  of  view,  any  man 
with  money,  born  outside  of  France,  is  a"Rasta," 
unless  he  come  with  diplomatic  rank,  in  which 
case  his  position  at  home  is  carefully  ferreted  out 
before  he  is  entertained.  Wealthy  foreigners  may 
live  for  years  in  Paris,  without  meeting  a  single 
member  of  this  coterie,  who  will,  however,  join 
any  new  club  that  promises  to  be  amusing;  but  as 
soon  as  the  "Rastas"  get  a  footing,  "the  seven" 
and  their  following  withdraw.  Puteaux  had  its 
day,  then  the  "Polo  Club"  in  the  Bois  became 
their  rendezvous.  But  as  every  wealthy  Ameri 
can  and  "smart"  Englishwoman  passing  the 
spring  in  Paris  rushed  for  that  too  open  circle,  like 
tacks  toward  a  magnet,  it  was  finally  cut  by  the 
"Duchesses,"  who,  together  with  such  attractive 
aides-de-camp  as  the  Princesse  de  Poix,  Mmes. 
de  Murat,  de  Morny,  and  de  Broglie,  inaugu 
rated  last  spring  "The  Ladies'  Club  of  the 

[  178  ] 


SMALL    <DUCHESSES 


Acacias,"  on  a  tiny  island  belonging  to  the  "Tir 
aux  Pigeons,"  which,  for  the  moment,  is  the  fad 
of  its  founders. 

It  must  be  a  surprise  to  those  who  do  not  know 
French  family  pride  to  learn  that  exclusive  as 
these  women  are  there  are  cliques  in  France  to 
day  whose  members  consider  the  ladies  we  have 
been  speaking  of  as  lacking  in  reserve.  Men  like 
Guy  de  Durfort,  Due  de  Lorges,  or  the  Due  de 
Massa,  and  their  womenkind,  hold  themselves 
aloof  on  an  infinitely  higher  plane,  associating 
with  very  few  and  scorning  the  vulgar  herd  of 
"smart"  people! 

It  would  seem  as  if  such  a  vigorous  weeding 
out  of  the  unworthy  would  result  in  a  rather  re 
stricted  comradeship.  Who  the  "elect"  are  must 
become  each  year  more  difficult  to  discern. 

Their  point  of  view  in  this  case  cannot  differ 
materially  from  that  of  the  old  Methodist  lady, 
who,  while  she  was  quite  sure  no  one  outside  of 
her  own  sect  could  possibly  be  saved,  had  grave 
fears  concerning  the  future  of  most  of  the  congre 
gation.  She  felt  hopeful  only  of  the  clergyman 
and  herself,  adding  :  "  There  are  days  when  I  have 
me  doubts  about  the  minister!" 


[  179  ] 


22 


Growing  Old  Ungracefully 


THERE  comes,  we  are  told,  a  crucial  mo 
ment,"  a  tide"  in  all  lives,  that  taken  at 
the  flood,  leads  on  to  fortune.  An  asser 
tion,  by  the  bye,  which  is  open  to  doubt.  What 
does  come  to  every  one  is  an  hour  fraught  with 
warning,  which,  if  unheeded,  leads  on  to  folly. 
This  fateful  date  coincides  for  most  of  us  with 
the  discovery  that  we  are  turning  gray,  or  that 
the  "crow's  feet"  on  our  temples  are  becoming 
visible  realities.  The  unpleasant  question  then 
presents  itself:  Are  we  to  slip  meekly  into  mid 
dle  age,  or  are  arms  to  be  taken  up  against  our 
insidious  enemy,  and  the  rest  of  life  become  a 
losing  battle,  fought  inch  by  inch? 

In  other  days  it  was  the  men  who  struggled 
the  hardest  against  their  fate.  Up  to  this  cen 
tury,  the  male  had  always  been  the  ornamental 
member  of  a  family.  Caesar,  we  read,  coveted  a 
laurel  crown  principally  because  it  would  help 
to  conceal  his  baldness.  The  wigs  of  the  Grand 
Monarque  are  historical.  It  is  characteristic  of 
the  time  that  the  latter's  attempts  at  rejuvenation 
should  have  been  taken  as  a  matter  of  course, 
while  a  few  years  later  poor  Madame  de  Pom 
padour's  artifices  to  retain  her  fleeting  youth 
were  laughed  at  and  decried. 

To-day  the  situation  is  reversed.  The  battle, 

[  180] 


OLT>    UNGRACEFULLY 


given  up  by  the  men  —  who  now  accept  their  fate 
with  equanimity  —  is  being  waged  by  their  better 
halves  with  a  vigor  heretofore  unknown.  So  gen 
eral  has  this  mania  become  that  if  asked  what  one 
weakness  was  most  characteristic  of  modern  wo 
men,  what  peculiarity  marked  them  as  different 
from  their  sisters  in  other  centuries,  I  should  un 
hesitatingly  answer,  "The  desire  to  look  younger 
than  their  years." 

That  people  should  long  to  be  handsomer  or 
taller  or  better  proportioned  than  a  cruel  Provi 
dence  has  made  them,  is  natural  enough;  but 
that  so  much  time  and  trouble  should  be  spent 
simply  in  trying  to  look  "young,"  does  seem 
unreasonable,  especially  when  it  is  evident  to 
everybody  that  such  efforts  must,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  be  failures.  The  men  or  women  who 
do  not  look  their  age  are  rare.  In  each  generation 
there  are  exceptions,  people  who,  from  one  cause 
or  another  —  generally  an  excellent  constitution 
—  succeed  in  producing  the  illusion  of  youth  for 
a  few  years  after  youth  itself  has  flown. 

A  curious  fatality  that  has  the  air  of  a  neme 
sis  pursues  those  who  succeed  in  giving  this  false 
appearance.  When  pointing  them  out  to  stran 
gers,  their  admirers  (in  order  to  make  the  contrast 
more  effective)  add  a  decade  or  so  to  the  real  age. 
Only  last  month  I  was  sitting  at  dinner  opposite 
a  famous  French  beauty,  who  at  fifty  succeeds  in 
looking  barely  thirty.  During  the  meal  both  my 
neighbors  directed  attention  to  her  appearance, 


THE    WtAYS    OF 


and  in  each  case  said:  "Is  n't  she  a  wonder!  You 
know  she's  over  sixty!"  So  all  that  poor  lady 
gained  by  looking  youthful  was  ten  years  added 
to  her  age! 

The  desire  to  remain  attractive  as  long  as  pos 
sible  is  not  only  a  reasonable  but  a  commendable 
ambition.  Unfortunately  the  stupid  means  most 
of  our  matrons  adopt  to  accomplish  this  end  pro 
duce  exactly  the  opposite  result. 

One  sign  of  deficient  taste  in  our  day  is  this 
failure  to  perceive  that  every  age  has  a  charm  of 
its  own  which  can  be  enhanced  by  appropriate 
surroundings,  but  is  lost  when  placed  in  an  incon 
gruous  setting.  It  saddens  a  lover  of  the  beauti 
ful  to  see  matrons  going  so  far  astray  in  their  de 
sire  to  please  as  to  pose  for  young  women  when 
they  no  longer  can  look  the  part. 

Holmes,  in  My  Maiden  Aunt^  asks  plain 
tively  :  — 

Why  will  she  train  that  wintry  curl  in  such  a  springlike 
way? 

That  this  folly  is  in  the  air  to-day,  few  will 
dispute.  It  seems  to  be  perpetrated  unconsciously 
by  the  greater  number,  with  no  particular  object 
in  view,  simply  because  other  people  do  it.  An 
unanswerable  argument  when  used  by  one  of  the 
fair  sex! 

Few  matrons  stop  to  think  for  themselves,  or 
they  would  realize  that  by  appearing  in  the  same 
attire  as  their  daughters  they  challenge  a  compar- 

[  -8*1 


OLT>    UNGRACEFULLY 

ison  which  can  only  be  to  their  disadvantage,  and 
should  be  if  possible  avoided.  Is  there  any  dis 
illusion  more  painful  than,  on  approaching  what 
appeared  from  a  distance  to  be  a  young  girl,  to  find 
one's  self  face  to  face  with  sixty  years  of  wrinkles  ? 
That  is  a  modern  version  of  the  saying,  "an  old 
head  on  young  shoulders,"  with  a  vengeance!  If 
mistaken  sexagenarians  could  divine  the  effecT: 
that  tired  eyes  smiling  from  under  false  hair,  aged 
throats  clasped  with  collars  of  pearls,  and  rheu 
matic  old  ribs  braced  into  a  semblance  of  girlish 
grace,  produce  on  the  men  for  whose  benefit 
such  adornments  have  been  arranged,  reform 
would  quickly  follow.  There  is  something  ab 
solutely  uncanny  in  the  illusion.  The  more  suc 
cessful  it  is,  the  more  weird  the  effect. 

No  one  wants  to  see  Polonius  in  the  finery  of 
Mercutio.  What  a  sense  of  fitness  demands  is, 
on  the  contrary,  a  "make  up"  in  keeping  with 
the  role,  which  does  not  mean  that  a  woman  is  to 
become  a  frump,  but  only  that  she  is  to  make 
herself  attractive  in  another  way. 

During  the  Anclen  Regime  in  France,  matters 
of  taste  were  considered  all-important ;  an  entire 
court  would  consult  on  the  shade  of  a  brocade, 
and  hail  a  new  coiffure  as  an  event.  The  great 
ladies  who  had  left  their  youth  behind  never 
then  committed  the  blunder,  so  common  among 
our  middle-aged  ladies,  of  aping  the  maidens  of 
the  day.  They  were  far  too  clever  for  that,  and 
appreciated  the  advantages  to  be  gained  from 

[  "83  ] 


THE    !r<rfrS    OF 


sombre  stuffs  and  flattering  laces.  Let  those  who 
doubt  study  Nattier's  exquisite  portrait  of  Maria 
Leczinska.  Nothing  in  the  pose  or  toilet  sug 
gests  a  desire  on  the  painter's  part  to  rejuvenate 
his  sitter.  If  anything,  the  queen's  age  is  empha 
sized  as  something  honorable.  The  gray  hair  is 
simply  arranged  and  partly  veiled  with  black  lace, 
which  sets  off  her  delicate,  faded  face  to  perfection, 
but  without  flattery  or  fraud. 

We  find  the  same  view  taken  of  age  by  the 
masters  of  the  Renaissance,  who  appreciated  its 
charm  and  loved  to  reproduce  its  grace. 

Queen  Elizabeth  stands  out  in  history  as  a 
woman  who  struggled  ungracefully  against  grow 
ing  old.  Her  wigs  and  hoops  and  farthingales 
served  only  to  make  her  ridiculous,  and  the  fact 
that  she  wished  to  be  painted  without  shadows 
in  order  to  appear  "young,"  is  recorded  as  an 
aberration  of  a  great  mind. 

Are  there  no  painters  to-day  who  will  whisper 
to  our  wives  and  mothers  the  secret  of  looking 
really  lovely,  and  persuade  them  to  abandon 
their  foolish  efforts  at  rejuvenation? 

Let  us  see  some  real  old  ladies  once  more,  as 
they  look  at  us  from  miniature  and  portrait.  Few 
of  us,  I  imagine,  but  cherish  the  memory  of  some 
such  being  in  the  old  home,  a  soft-voiced  grand 
mother,  with  silvery  hair  brushed  under  a  discreet 
and  flattering  cap,  with  soft,  dark  raiment  and 
tulle-wrapped  throat.  There  are  still,  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  many  such  lovable  women  in  our  land, 

[  "H] 


OL<D    UNGRACEFULLY 


but  at  times  I  look  about  me  in  dismay,  and  won 
der  who  is  to  take  their  places  when  they  are  gone. 
Are  there  to  be  no  more  "  old  ladies"?  Will  the 
next  generation  have  to  look  back  when  the  word 
"grandmother"  is  mentioned,  to  a  stylish  vision 
in  Parisian  apparel,  decollete  and  decked  in  jew 
els,  or  arrayed  in  cocky  little  bonnets,  perched  on 
tousled  curls,  knowing  jackets,  and  golfing  skirts? 
The  present  horror  of  anything  elderly  comes, 
probably,  from  the  fad:  that  the  preceding  gen 
eration  went  to  the  other  extreme,  young  women 
retiring  at  forty  into  becapped  old  age.  Knowing 
how  easily  our  excitable  race  runs  to  exaggera 
tion,  one  trembles  to  think  what  surprises  the 
future  may  hold,  or  what  will  be  the  next  decree 
of  Dame  Fashion.  Having  eliminated  the  "old 
lady  "  from  off  the  face  of  the  earth,  how  fast  shall 
we  continue  down  the  fatal  slope  toward  the 
ridiculous?  Shall  we  be  compelled  by  a  current 
stronger  than  our  wills  to  array  ourselves  each 
year  (the  bare  thought  makes  one  shudder)  in 
more  and  more  youthful  apparel,  until  corpulent 
senators  take  to  running  about  in  "sailor  suits," 
and  oclogenarian  business  men  go  "down  town" 
in  "pinafores,"  while  belles  of  sixty  or  seventy 
summers  appear  in  Kate  Greenaway  costumes, 
and  dine  out  in  short-sleeved  bibs,  which  will  al 
low  coy  glimpses  of  their  cunning  old  ankles  to 
appear  over  their  socks? 


[  185] 


N°-  23 

Around  a  Spring 


THE  greatest  piece  of  good  luck  that  can 
befall  a  Continental  village  is  the  dis 
covery,  within  its  limits,  of  a  spring 
supplying  some  kind  of  malodorous  water.  From 
that  moment  the  entire  community,  abandoning 
all  other  plans,  give  themselves  over  to  hatching 
their  golden  egg,  experience  having  taught  them 
that  no  other  source  of  prosperity  can  compare 
with  a  source  thermale.  If  the  water  of  the  new 
found  spring,  besides  having  an  unpleasant  smell, 
is  also  hot,  then  Providence  has  indeed  blessed 
the  township. 

The  first  step  is  to  have  the  fluid  analyzed  by 
a  celebrity,  and  its  medicinal  qualities  duly  set 
forth  in  a  certificate.  The  second  is  to  get  offi 
cial  recognition  from  the  government  and  the 
authorization  to  erect  a  bath  house.  Once  these 
preliminaries  accomplished,  the  way  lies  plain  be 
fore  the  fortunate  village ;  every  citizen,  from  the 
mayor  down  to  the  humblest  laborer,  devotes 
himself  to  solving  the  all-important  problem 
how  to  attract  strangers  to  the  place  and  keep 
and  amuse  them  when  they  have  been  secured. 

Multicolored  pamphlets  detailing  the  local  at 
tractions  are  mailed  to  the  four  corners  of  the 
earth,  and  brilliant  chromos  of  the  village,  with 
groups  of  peasants  in  the  foreground,  wearing 

[  186] 


SPRINQ 


picturesque  costumes,  are  posted  in  every  avail 
able  railway  station  and  booking-office,  regard 
less  of  the  fact  that  no  costumes  have  been  known 
in  the  neighborhood  for  half  a  century,  except 
those  provided  by  the  hotel  proprietors  for  their 
housemaids.  A  national  dress,  however,  has  a  fine 
effect  in  the  advertisement,  and  gives  a  local  color 
to  the  scene.  What,  for  instance,  would  Athens 
be  without  that  superb  individual  in  national 
get-up  whom  one  is  sure  to  see  before  the  hotel 
on  alighting  from  the  omnibus?  I  am  convinced 
that  he  has  given  as  much  pleasure  as  the  Acrop 
olis  to  most  travellers;  the  knowledge  that  the 
hotel  proprietors  share  the  expenses  of  his  keep 
and  toilet  cannot  dispel  the  charm  of  those  scar 
let  embroideries  and  glittering  arms. 

After  preparing  their  trap,  the  wily  inhabitants 
of  a  new  watering-place  have  only  to  sit  down 
and  await  events.  The  first  people  to  appear  on 
the  scene  are,  naturally,  the  English,  some  hid 
den  natural  law  compelling  that  race  to  wander 
forever  in  inexpensive  by-ways  and  serve  as  pio 
neers  for  other  nations.  No  matter  how  new  or 
inaccessible  the  spring,  you  are  sure  to  find  a 
small  colony  of  Britons  installed  in  the  half-fin 
ished  hotels,  reading  week-old  editions  of  the 
Times,  and  grumbling  over  the  increase  in  prices 
since  the  year  before. 

As  soon  as  the  first  stray  Britons  have  de 
veloped  into  an  "English  colony,"  the  munici 
pality  consider  themselves  authorized  to  con- 

[  187] 


strucl:  a  casino  and  open  avenues,  which  are  soon 
bordered  by  young  trees  and  younger  villas.  In 
the  wake  of  the  English  come  invalids  of  other 
nationalities.  If  a  wandering  "crowned  head"  can 
be  secured  for  a  season,  a  great  step  is  gained,  as 
that  will  attract  the  real  paying  public  and  the 
Americans,  who  as  a  general  thing  are  the  last  to 
appear  on  the  scene. 

At  this  stage  of  its  evolution,  the  "city  fathers" 
build  a  theatre  in  connection  with  their  casino, 
and  (persuading  the  government  to  wink  at  their 
evasion  of  the  gambling  laws)  add  games  of 
chance  to  the  other  temptations  of  the  place. 

There  is  no  better  example  of  the  way  a  spring 
can  be  developed  by  clever  handling,  and  satis 
factory  results  obtained  from  advertising  and  ju 
dicious  expenditure,  than  Aix-les-Bains,  which 
twenty  years  ago  was  but  a  tiny  mountain  village, 
and  to-day  ranks  among  the  wealthiest  and  most 
brilliant  eaux  in  Europe.  In  this  case,  it  is  true, 
they  had  tradition  to  fall  back  on,  for  Aquae 
Gratinas  was  already  a  favorite  watering-place  in 
the  year  30  B.  c.,  when  Caesar  took  the  cure. 

There  is  little  doubt  in  my  mind  that  when 
the  Roman  Emperor  first  arrived  he  found  a  col 
ony  of  spinsters  and  retired  army  officers  (from 
recently  conquered  Britain)  living  around  this 
spring  in  popin<e  (which  are  supposed  to  have 
corresponded  to  our  modern  boarding-house), 
wearing  waterproof  togas  and  common-sense 
cothurni,  with  double  cork  soles. 

[  188  ] 


The  wife  of  another  Caesar  fled  hither  in  1814. 
The  little  inn  where  she  passed  a  summer  in  the 
company  of  her  one-eyed  lover — while  the  fate 
of  her  husband  and  son  was  being  decided  at 
Vienna  and  Waterloo — is  still  standing,  and 
serves  as  the  annex  of  a  vast  new  hotel. 

The  way  in  which  a  watering-place  is  "run" 
abroad,  where  tourists  are  regarded  as  godsends, 
to  be  cherished,  spoiled,  and  despoiled,  is  amus 
ingly  different  from  the  manner  of  our  village 
populations  when  summer  visitors  (whom  they 
look  upon  as  natural  enemies)  appear  on  the 
scene.  Abroad  the  entire  town,  together  with  the 
surrounding  villages,  hamlets,  and  farmhouses, 
rack  their  brains  and  devote  their  time  to  invent 
ing  new  amusements  for  the  visitor,  and  original 
ways  of  enticing  the  gold  from  his  pocket — for, 
mind  you,  on  both  continents  the  object  is  the 
same.  In  Europe  the  rural  Machiavellis  have 
had  time  to  learn  that  smiling  faces  and  pictu 
resque  surroundings  are  half  the  battle. 

Another  point  which  is  perfectly  understood 
abroad  is  that  a  cure  must  be  largely  mental ;  that 
in  consequence  boredom  retards  recovery.  So  dur 
ing  every  hour  of  the  day  and  evening  a  different 
amusement  is  provided  for  those  who  feel  in 
clined  to  be  amused.  At  Aix,  for  instance,  Co- 
lonne's  orchestra  plays  under  the  trees  at  the 
Villa  des  Fleurs  while  you  are  sipping  your  after- 
luncheon  coffee.  At  three  o'clock  "  Guignol "  per 
forms  for  the  youngsters.  At  five  o'clock  there  is 


THE    WtATS    OF 


another  concert  in  the  Casino.  At  eight  o'clock 
an  operetta  is  given  at  the  villa,  and  a  comedy 
in  the  Casino,  both  ending  discreetly  at  eleven 
o'clock.  Once  a  week,  as  a  variety,  the  park  is 
illuminated  and  fireworks  help  to  pass  the  even 
ing. 

If  neither  music  nor  Guignol  tempts  you,  every 
form  of  trap  from  a  four-horse  break  to  a  donkey- 
chair  (the  latter  much  in  fashion  since  the  Eng 
lish  queen's  visit)  is  standing  ready  in  the  little 
square.  On  the  neighboring  lake  you  have  but  to 
choose  between  a  dozen  kinds  of  boats.  The  hire 
of  all  these  modes  of  conveyance  being  fixed  by 
the  municipality,  and  plainly  printed  in  boat  or 
carriage,  extortions  or  discussions  are  impossible. 
If  you  prefer  a  ramble  among  the  hills,  the  wily 
native  is  lying  in  wait  for  you  there  also.  When 
you  arrive  breathless  at  your  journey's  end,  a 
shady  arbor  offers  shelter  where  you  may  cool  off 
and  enjoy  the  view.  It  is  not  by  accident  that  a 
dish  of  freshly  gathered  strawberries  and  a  bowl 
of  milk  happen  to  be  standing  near  by. 

When  bicycling  around  the  lake  you  begin  to 
feel  how  nice  a  half  hour's  rest  would  be.  Presto  ! 
a  terrace  overhanging  the  water  appears,  and  a 
farmer's  wife  who  proposes  brewing  you  a  cup 
of  tea,  supplementing  it  with  butter  and  bread 
of  her  own  making.  Weak  human  nature  cannot 
withstand  such  blandishments.  You  find  yourself 
becoming  fond  of  the  people  and  their  smiling 
ways,  returning  again  and  again  to  shores  where 

[  '9°  ] 


you  are  made  so  welcome.  The  fact  that  "busi 
ness"  is  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  in  no  way  inter 
feres  with  one's  enjoyment.  On  the  contrary,  to 
a  practical  mind  it  is  refreshing  to  see  how  much 
can  be  made  of  a  little,  and  what  a  fund  of  profit 
and  pleasure  can  be  extracted  from  small  things, 
if  one  goes  to  work  in  the  right  way. 

The  trick  can  doubtless  be  overdone:  at  mo 
ments  one  feels  the  little  game  is  worked  a  bit 
too  openly.  The  other  evening,  for  instance, 
when  we  entered  the  dining-room  of  our  hotel 
and  found  it  decorated  with  flags  and  flowers,  be 
cause,  forsooth,  it  was  the  birthday  of  "Victoria 
R.  and  I.,"  when  champagne  was  offered  at  des 
sert  and  the  band  played  "  God  Save  the  Queen," 
while  the  English  solemnly  stood  up  in  their 
places,  it  did  seem  as  if  the  proprietor  was  poking 
fun  at  his  guests  in  a  sly  way. 

I  was  apparently  the  only  person,  however, 
who  felt  this.  The  English  were  much  flattered 
by  the  attention,  so  I  snubbed  myself  with  the 
reflection  that  if  the  date  had  been  July  4,  I 
doubtless  should  have  considered  the  flags  and 
music  most  a  propos. 

There  are  also  moments  when  the  vivid  pictu- 
resqueness  of  this  place  comes  near  to  palling  on 
one.  Its  beauty  is  so  suspiciously  like  a  set  scene 
that  it  gives  the  impression  of  having  been  ar 
ranged  by  some  clever  decorator  with  an  eye  to 
effect  only. 

One  is  continually  reminded  of  that  inimitable 


THE    W^fTS    OF 


chapter  in  Daudet's  Tartarin  sur  les  Alpes^  when 
the  hero  discovers  that  all  Switzerland  is  one 
enormous  humbug,  run  to  attract  tourists;  that 
the  cataracts  are  "faked,"  and  avalanches  ar 
ranged  beforehand  to  enliven  a  dull  season.  Can 
anything  be  more  delicious  than  the  disillusion 
of  Tartarin  and  his  friends,  just  back  from  a 
perilous  chamois  hunt,  on  discovering  that  the 
animal  they  had  exhausted  themselves  in  follow 
ing  all  day  across  the  mountains,  was  being  re 
freshed  with  hot  wine  in  the  kitchen  of  the  hotel 
by  its  peasant  owner  ? 

When  one  visits  the  theatrical  abbey  across 
the  lake  and  inspects  the  too  picturesque  tombs 
of  Savoy's  sovereigns,  or  walks  in  the  wonderful 
old  garden,  with  its  intermittent  spring,  the  sus 
picion  occurs,  in  spite  of  one's  self,  that  the  whole 
scene  will  be  folded  up  at  sunset  and  the  bare 
footed  "brother"  who  is  showing  us  around  with 
so  much  unction  will,  after  our  departure,  hurry 
into  another  costume,  and  appear  later  as  one  of 
the  happy  peasants  who  are  singing  and  drinking 
in  front  of  that  absurdly  operatic  little  inn  you 
pass  on  the  drive  home. 

There  is  a  certain  pink  cottage,  with  a  thatched 
roof  and  overhanging  vines,  about  which  I  have 
serious  doubts,  and  fully  expect  some  day  to  see 
Columbine  appear  on  that  pistache-green  bal 
cony  (where  the  magpie  is  hanging  in  a  wicker 
cage),  and,  taking  Arlequin's  hand,  disappear 
into  the  water-butt  while  Clown  does  a  header 

[    192   ] 


over  the  half-door,  and  the  cottage  itself  turns 
into  a  gilded  coach,  with  Columbine  kissing  her 
hand  from  the  window. 

A  problem  which  our  intelligent  people  have 
not  yet  set  themselves  to  solve,  is  being  worked 
out  abroad.  The  little  cities  of  Europe  have  dis 
covered  that  prosperity  comes  with  the  tourist, 
that  with  increased  facilities  of  communication 
the  township  which  expends  the  most  in  money 
and  brains  in  attracting  rich  travellers  to  its  gates 
is  the  place  that  will  grow  and  prosper.  It  is  a  sim 
ple  lesson,  and  one  that  I  would  gladly  see  our 
American  watering-places  learn  and  apply. 


N°-  24 

The  Better  Part 


A  I  watch,  year  after  year,  the  flowers  of 
our  aristocratic  hothouses  blooming  be 
hind  the  glass  partitions  of  their  conser 
vatories,  tended  always  by  the  same  gardeners, 
admired  by  the  same  amateurs,  and  then,  for  the 
most  part,  withering  unplucked  on  their  virgin 
stems,  I  wonder  if  the  wild  flowers  appreciate  the 
good  luck  that  allows  them  to  taste  the  storm 
and  the  sunshine  untrammelled  and  disperse  per 
fume  according  to  their  own  sweet  will. 

To  drop  a  cumbersome  metaphor,  there  is  not 
the  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  the  tamest  and  most 
monotonous  lives  in  this  country  are  those  led 
by  the  women  in  our  "exclusive"  sets,  for  the 
good  reason  that  they  are  surrounded  by  all  the 
trammels  of  European  society  without  enjoying 
any  of  its  benefits,  and  live  in  an  atmosphere 
that  takes  the  taste  out  of  existence  too  soon. 

Girls  abroad  are  kept  away  from  the  "world" 
because  their  social  life  only  commences  after 
marriage.  In  America,  on  the  contrary,  a  woman 
is  laid  more  or  less  on  the  shelf  the  day  she 
becomes  a  wife,  so  that  if  she  has  not  made  hay 
while  her  maiden  sunshine  lasted,  the  chances  are 
she  will  have  but  meagrely  furnished  lofts ;  and 
how,  I  ask,  is  a  girl  to  harvest  always  in  the 
same  field? 

[   194  ] 


THE     BETTER    TART 

When,  in  this  country,  a  properly  brought  up 
young  aristocrat  is  presented  by  her  mamma  to 
an  admiring  circle  of  friends,  she  is  quite  a  blasee 
person.  The  dancing  classes  she  has  attended 
for  a  couple  of  years  before  her  debut  (that  she 
might  know  the  right  set  of  youths  and  maidens) 
have  taken  the  bloom  off  her  entrance  into  the 
world.  She  and  her  friends  have  already  talked 
over  the  "men"  of  their  circle,  and  decided,  with 
a  sigh,  that  there  were  discouragingly  few  good 
matches  going  about.  A  juvenile  Newporter 
was  recently  overheard  deploring  (to  a  friend  of 
fifteen  summers),  "By  the  time  we  come  out 
there  will  only  be  two  matches  in  the  market," 
meaning,  of  course,  millionnaires  who  could  pro 
vide  their  brides  with  country  and  city  homes, 
yachts,  and  the  other  appurtenances  of  a  brilliant 
position.  Now,  the  unfortunate  part  of  the  affair 
is,  that  such  a  worldly-minded  maiden  will  in 
good  time  be  obliged  to  make  her  debut,  dine, 
and  dance  through  a  dozen  seasons  without  mak 
ing  a  new  acquaintance.  Her  migrations  from 
town  to  seashore,  or  from  one  country  house  to 
another,  will  be  but  changes  of  scene:  the  actors 
will  remain  always  the  same.  When  she  dines 
out,  she  can,  if  she  cares  to  take  the  trouble, 
make  a  fair  guess  as  to  who  the  guests  will  be 
before  she  starts,  for  each  entertainment  is  but 
a  new  shuffle  of  the  too  well-known  pack.  She 
is  morally  certain  of  being  taken  in  to  dinner  by 
one  of  fifty  men  whom  she  has  known  since  her 

[  195  ] 


THE    W<AYS    OF 


childhood,  and  has  met  on  an  average  twice  a 
week  since  she  was  eighteen. 

Of  foreigners  such  a  girl  sees  little  beyond  a 
stray  diplomatist  or  two,  in  search  of  a  fortune, 
and  her  glimpses  of  Paris  society  are  obtained 
from  the  windows  of  a  hotel  on  the  Place  Ven- 
dome.  In  London  or  Rome  she  may  be  presented 
in  a  few  international  salons,  but  as  she  finds  it 
difficult  to  make  her  new  acquaintances  under 
stand  what  an  exalted  position  she  occupies  at 
home,  the  chances  are  that  pique  at  seeing  some 
Daisy  Miller  attract  all  the  attention  will  drive 
my  lady  back  to  the  city  where  she  is  known  and 
appreciated,  nothing  being  more  difficult  for  an 
American  "swell"  than  explaining  to  the  unini 
tiated  in  what  way  her  position  differs  from  that 
of  the  rest  of  her  compatriots. 

When  I  see  the  bevies  of  highly  educated  and 
attractive  girls  who  make  their  bows  each  season, 
I  ask  myself  in  wonder,  "Who,  in  the  name  of 
goodness,  are  they  to  marry?" 

In  the  very  circle  where  so  much  stress  is  laid 
on  a  girl's  establishing  herself  brilliantly,  the 
fewest  possible  husbands  are  to  be  found.  Yet, 
limited  as  such  a  girl's  choice  is,  she  will  sooner 
remain  single  than  accept  a  husband  out  of  her 
set.  She  has  a  perfectly  distinct  idea  of  what  she 
wants,  and  has  lived  so  long  in  the  atmosphere 
of  wealth  that  existence  without  footmen  and 
male  cooks,  horses  and  French  clothes,  appears 
to  her  impossible.  Such  large  proportions  do 

[  -96] 


THE     BETTER    TART 

these  details  assume  in  her  mind  that  each  year 
the  husband  himself  becomes  of  less  importance, 
and  what  he  can  provide  the  essential  point. 

If  an  outsider  is  sufficiently  rich,  my  lady  may 
consent  to  unite  her  destinies  to  his,  hoping  to 
get  him  absorbed  into  her  own  world. 

O 

It  is  pathetic,  considering  the  restricted  number 
of  eligible  men  going  about,  to  see  the  trouble  and 
expense  that  parents  take  to  keep  their  daughters 
en  evidence.  When  one  reflects  on  the  number  of 
people  who  are  disturbed  when  such  a  girl  dines 
out,  the  horses  and  men  and  women  who  are  kept 
up  to  convey  her  home,  the  time  it  has  taken  her 
to  dress,  the  cost  of  the  toilet  itself,  and  then 
see  the  man  to  whom  she  will  be  consigned  for 
the  evening, — some  bored  man  about  town  who 
has  probably  taken  her  mother  in  to  dinner 
twenty  years  before,  and  will  not  trouble  himself 
to  talk  with  his  neighbor,  or  a  schoolboy,  break 
ing  in  his  first  dress  suit, — when  one  realizes  that 
for  many  maidens  this  goes  on  night  after  night 
and  season  after  season,  it. seems  incredible  that 
they  should  have  the  courage,  or  think  it  worth 
their  while,  to  keep  up  the  game. 

The  logical  result  of  turning  eternally  in  the 
same  circle  is  that  nine  times  out  of  ten  the  men 
who  marry  choose  girls  out  of  their  own  set, 
some  pretty  stranger  who  has  burst  on  their 
jaded  vision  with  all  the  charm  of  the  unknown. 
A  conventional  society  maiden  who  has  not  been 
fortunate  enough  to  meet  and  marry  a  man  she 

[  197] 


THE    WtATS    OF 


loves,  or  whose  fortune  tempts  her,  during  the 
first  season  or  two  that  she  is  "out,"  will  in  all 
probability  go  on  revolving  in  an  ever-narrowing 
circle  until  she  becomes  stationary  in  its  centre. 

In  comparison  with  such  an  existence  the  life 
of  the  average  "summer  girl"  is  one  long  frolic, 
as  varied  as  that  of  her  aristocratic  sister  is  mo 
notonous.  Each  spring  she  has  the  excitement 
of  selecting  a  new  battle-ground  for  her  ma 
noeuvres,  for  in  the  circle  in  which  she  moves, 
parents  leave  such  details  to  their  children.  Once 
installed  in  the  hotel  of  her  choice,  mademoiselle 
proceeds  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  an  entirely 
new  set  of  friends,  delightful  youths  just  arrived, 
and  bent  on  making  the  most  of  their  brief  holi 
days,  with  whom  her  code  of  etiquette  allows  her 
to  sail  all  day,  and  pass  uncounted  evening  hours 
in  remote  corners  of  piazza  or  beach. 

As  the  words  "position"  and  "set"  have  no 
meaning  to  her  young  ears,  and  no  one  has  ever 
preached  to  her  the  importance  of  improving  her 
social  standing,  the  acquaintances  that  chance 
throws  in  her  path  are  accepted  without  question 
if  they  happen  to  be  good-looking  and  amusing. 
She  has  no  prejudice  as  to  standing,  and  if  her 
supply  of  partners  runs  short,  she  will  dance  and 
flirt  with  the  clerk  from  the  desk  in  perfect  good 
humor  —  in  fact,  she  stands  rather  in  awe  of  that 
functionary,  and  admires  the  "English"  cut  of 
his  clothes  and  his  Eastern  swagger.  A  large  hotel 
is  her  dream  of  luxury,  and  a  couple  of  simulta- 


THE     'BETTER    TAR  T 

neous  flirtations  her  ideal  of  bliss.  No  long  even 
ings  of  cruel  boredom,  in  order  to  be  seen  at 
smart  houses,  will  cloud  the  maiden's  career,  no 
agonized  anticipation  of  retiring  partnerless  from 
cotillion  or  supper  will  disturb  her  pleasure. 

I  n  the  city  she  hails  from,  everybody  she  knows 
lives  in  about  the  same  style.  Some  are  said  to 
be  wealthier  than  others,  but  nothing  in  their 
way  of  life  betrays  the  fact;  the  art  of  knowing 
how  to  enjoy  wealth  being  but  little  understood 
outside  of  our  one  or  two  great  cities.  She  has 
that  tranquil  sense  of  being  the  social  equal  of 
the  people  she  meets,  the  absence  of  which  makes 
the  snob's  life  a  burden. 

During  her  summers  away  from  home  our 
"young  friend"  will  meet  other  girls  of  her 
age,  and  form  friendships  that  result  in  mutual 
visiting  during  the  ensuing  winter,  when  she  will 
continue  to  add  more  new  names  to  the  long  list 
of  her  admirers,  until  one  fine  morning  she  writes 
home  to  her  delighted  parents  that  she  has  found 
the  right  man  at  last,  and  engaged  herself  to  him. 

Never  having  penetrated  to  those  sacred  cen 
tres  where  birth  and  wealth  are  considered  all- 
important,  and  ignoring  the  supreme  importance 
of  living  in  one  set,  the  plan  of  life  that  such  a 
woman  lays  out  for  herself  is  exceedingly  sim 
ple.  She  will  coquette  and  dance  and  dream  her 
pleasant  dream  until  Prince  Charming,  who  is 
to  awaken  her  to  a  new  life,  comes  and  kisses 
away  the  dew  of  girlhood  and  leads  his  bride 


THE    WJIYS    OF 


out  into  the  work-a-day  world.  The  simple  sur 
roundings  and  ambitions  of  her  youth  will  make 
it  easy  for  this  wife  to  follow  the  man  of  her  choice, 
if  necessary,  to  the  remote  village  where  he  is  di 
recting  a  factory  or  to  the  mining  camp  where  the 
foundations  of  a  fortune  lie.  Life  is  full  of  deli 
cious  possibilities  for  her.  Men  who  are  forced 
to  make  their  way  in  youth  often  turn  out  to  be 
those  who  make  "history"  later,  and  a  bride  who 
has  not  become  prematurely  blasee  to  all  the  lux 
uries  or  pleasures  of  existence  will  know  the  great 
est  happiness  that  can  come  into  a  woman's  life, 
that  of  rising  at  her  husband's  side,  step  by  step, 
enjoying  his  triumphs  as  she  shared  his  poverty. 


[  200  ] 


Ne-  25 

La 
Comedie  Francaise  a  Orange 

IDLING  up  through  the  south  of  France, 
in  company  with  a  passionate  lover  of  that 
fair  land,  we  learned  on  arriving  at  Lyons, 
that  the  actors  of  the  Comedie  Franchise  were 
to  pass  through  there  the  next  day,  en  route  for 
Orange,  where  a  series  of  fetes  had  been  arranged 
by"  Les  Felibres."  This  society,  composed  of  the 
writers  and  poets  of  Provence,  have  the  preserva 
tion  of  the  Roman  theatre  at  Orange  (perhaps  the 
most  perfect  specimen  of  classical  theatrical  archi 
tecture  in  existence)  profoundly  at  heart,  their 
hope  being  to  restore  some  of  its  pristine  beauty 
to  the  ruin,  and  give  from  time  to  time  perfor 
mances  of  the  Greek  masterpieces  on  its  disused 
stage. 

The  money  obtained  by  these  representations 
will  be  spent  in  the  restoration  of  the  theatre,  and 
it  is  expected  in  time  to  make  Orange  the  centre 
of  classic  drama,  as  Bey  reu  this  that  of  Wagnerian 
music. 

At  Lyons,  the  cortege  was  to  leave  the  Paris 
train  and  take  boats  down  the  Rhone,  to  their  des 
tination.  Their  programme  was  so  tempting  that 
the  offer  of  places  on  one  of  the  craft  was  enough 
to  lure  us  away  from  our  prearranged  route. 

By  eight  o'clock  the  following  morning,  we 


THE    W^TS    OF    ME 


were  on  foot,  as  was  apparently  the  entire  city. 
A  cannon  fired  from  Fort  Lamothe  gave  the  sig 
nal  of  our  start.  The  river,  covered  with  a  thou 
sand  gayly  decorated  craft,  glinted  and  glittered 
in  the  morning  light.  It  would  be  difficult  to  for 
get  that  scene,  —  the  banks  of  the  Rhone  were 
lined  with  the  rural  population,  who  had  come 
miles  in  every  direction  to  acclaim  the  passage  of 
their  poets. 

Everywhere  along  our  route  the  houses  were 
gayly  decorated  and  arches  of  flowers  had  been 
ereded.  We  float  past  Vienne,  a  city  once  gov 
erned  by  Pontius  Pilate,  and  Tournon,  with  its 
feudal  chateau,  blue  in  the  distance,  then  Saint 
Peray,  on  a  verdant  vine-clad  slope.  As  we  pass 
under  the  bridge  at  Montelimar,  an  avalanche 
of  flowers  descends  on  us  from  above. 

The  rapid  current  of  the  river  soon  brings  our 
flotilla  opposite  Vivier,  whose  Gothic  cathedral 
bathes  its  feet  in  the  Rhone.  Saint  Esprit  and  its 
antique  bridge  appear  next  on  the  horizon.  Tra 
dition  asserts  that  the  Holy  Spirit,  disguised  as 
a  stone  mason,  directed  its  construction  ;  there 
were  thirteen  workmen  each  day,  but  at  sunset, 
when  the  men  gathered  to  be  paid,  but  twelve 
could  be  counted. 

Here  the  mayor  and  the  municipal  council 
were  to  have  received  us  and  delivered  an  ad 
dress,  but  were  not  on  hand.  We  could  see  the 
tardy  cortege  hastening  towards  the  bridge  as  we 
shot  away  down  stream. 

[  202  ] 


COMEDIE  FRANCHISE  A   ORANGE 

On  nearing  Orange,  the  banks  and  quays  of 
the  river  are  alive  with  people.  The  high  road, 
parallel  with  the  stream,  is  alive  with  a  many- 
colored  throng.  On  all  sides  one  hears  the  lan 
guage  of  Mistral,  and  recognizes  the  music  of 
Mireille  sung  by  these  pilgrims  to  an  artistic 
Mecca,  where  a  miracle  is  to  be  performed — and 
classic  art  called  forth  from  its  winding-sheet. 

The  population  of  a  whole  region  is  astir  under 
the  ardent  Provencal  sun,  to  witness  a  resurrec 
tion  of  the  Drama  in  the  historic  valley  of  the 
Rhone,  through  whose  channel  the  civilization 
and  art  and  culture  of  the  old  world  floated  up 
into  Europe  to  the  ceaseless  cry  of  the  cigales. 

Chateaurenard !  our  water  journey  is  ended. 
Through  the  leafy  avenues  that  lead  to  Orange, 
we  see  the  arch  of  Marius  and  the  gigantic  pro 
scenium  of  the  theatre,  rising  above  the  roofs  of 
the  little  city. 

So  few  of  our  compatriots  linger  in  the  south 
of  France  after  the  spring  has  set  in,  or  wander 
in  the  by-ways  of  that  inexhaustible  country,  that 
a  word  about  the  representations  at  Orange  may 
be  of  interest,  and  perchance  create  a  desire  to 
see  the  masterpieces  of  classic  drama  (the  com 
mon  inheritance  of  all  civilized  races)  revived 
with  us,  and  our  stage  put  to  its  legitimate  use, 
cultivating  and  elevating  the  taste  of  the  people. 

One  would  so  gladly  see  a  little  of  the  money 
that  is  generously  given  for  music  used  to  revive 
in  America  a  love  for  the  classic  drama. 


THE    WrfTS    OF 


We  are  certainly  not  inferior  to  our  neighbors 
in  culture  or  appreciation,  and  yet  such  a  per 
formance  as  I  witnessed  at  Orange  (laying  aside 
the  enchantment  lent  by  the  surroundings)  would 
not  be  possible  here.  Why?  But  to  return  to  my 
narrative. 

The  sun  is  setting  as  we  toil,  ticket  in  hand, 
up  the  Roman  stairway  to  the  upper  rows  of 
seats  ;  far  below  the  local  gendarmerie  who  mostly 
understand  their  orders  backwards  are  strug 
gling  with  the  throng,  whose  entrance  they  are 
apparently  obstructing  by  every  means  in  their 
power.  Once  seated,  and  having  a  wait  of  an 
hour  before  us,  we  amused  ourselves  watching 
the  crowd  filling  in  every  corner  of  the  vast  build 
ing,  like  a  rising  tide  of  multi-colored  water. 

We  had  purposely  chosen  places  on  the  high 
est  and  most  remote  benches,  to  test  the  vaunted 
acoustic  qualities  of  the  auditorium,  and  to  ob 
tain  a  view  of  the  half-circle  of  humanity,  the 
gigantic  wall  back  of  the  stage,  and  the  surround 
ing  country. 

As  day  softened  into  twilight,  and  twilight 
deepened  into  a  luminous  Southern  night,  the  ef 
fect  was  incomparable.  The  belfries  and  roofs  of 
mediaeval  Orange  rose  in  the  clear  air,  overtopping 
the  half  ruined  theatre  in  many  places.  The  arch 
of  Marius  gleamed  white  against  the  surrounding 
hills,  themselves  violet  and  purple  in  the  sunset, 
their  shadow  broken  here  and  there  by  the  outline 
of  a  crumbling  chateau  or  the  lights  of  a  village. 
[  204  ] 


COMEDIE  FRANCHISE  A   ORANGE 

Behind  us  the  sentries  paced  along  the  wall, 
wrapped  in  their  dark  cloaks;  and  over  all  the 
scene,  one  snowtopped  peak  rose  white  on  the 
horizon,  like  some  classic  virgin  assisting  at  an 
Olympian  solemnity. 

On  the  stage,  partly  cleared  of  the  debris  of 
fifteen  hundred  years,  trees  had  been  left  where 
they  had  grown,  among  fallen  columns,  frag 
ments  of  capital  and  statue;  near  the  front  a 
superb  rose-laurel  recalled  the  Attic  shores.  To 
the  right,  wild  grasses  and  herbs  alternated  with 
thick  shrubbery,  among  which  Orestes  hid  later, 
during  the  lamentations  of  his  sister.  To  the  left 
a  gigantic  fig-tree,  growing  against  the  dark  wall, 
threw  its  branches  far  out  over  the  stage. 

It  was  from  behind  its  foliage  that  "Gaul," 
"  Provence,"  and  "  France,"  personated  by  three 
actresses  of  the  "  Fran^ais,"  advanced  to  salute 
Apollo,  seated  on  his  rustic  throne,  in  the  pro 
logue  which  began  the  performance. 

Since  midday  the  weather  had  been  threaten 
ing.  At  seven  o'clock  there  was  almost  a  shower 
— a  moment  of  terrible  anxiety.  What  a  mis 
fortune  if  it  should  rain,  just  as  the  actors  were 
to  appear,  here,  where  it  had  not  rained  for 
nearly  four  months !  My  right-hand  neighbor,  a 
citizen  of  Beaucaire,  assures  me,  "It  will  be 
nothing,  only  a  strong  'mistral'  for  to-morrow." 
An  electrician  is  putting  the  finishing  touches  to 
his  arrangements.  He  tries  vainly  to  concentrate 
some  light  on  the  box  where  the  committee  is 


THE    WtATS    OF    5\4  E 


to  sit,  which  is  screened  by  a  bit  of  crumbling 
wall,  but  finally  gives  it  up. 

Suddenly  the  bugles  sound;  the  orchestra 
rings  out  the  Marseillaise;  it  is  eight  o'clock. 
The  sky  is  wild  and  threatening.  An  unseen  hand 
strikes  the  three  traditional  blows.  The  Faun 
Lybrian  slips  down  from  a  branch  of  a  great  elm, 
and  throws  himself  on  the  steps  that  later  are  to 
represent  the  entrance  to  the  palace  of  Agamem 
non,  and  commences  the  prologue  (an  invocation 
to  Apollo),  in  the  midst  of  such  confusion  that 
we  hear  hardly  a  word.  Little  by  little,  however, 
the  crowd  quiets  down,  and  I  catch  Louis  Gallet's 
fine  lines,  marvellously  phrased  by  Mesdames 
Bartet,  Dudlay,  Moreno,  and  the  handsome  Fe- 
noux  as  Apollo. 

The  real  interest  of  the  public  is  only  aroused, 
however,  when  T'he  Erynnies  begins.  This  power 
ful  adaptation  from  the  tragedy  of  ^schylus  is 
the  chef  d'  ceuvre  Q{  Leconte  de  Lisle.  The  silence 
is  now  complete.  One  feels  in  the  air  that  the 
moment  so  long  and  so  anxiously  awaited  has 
come,  that  a  great  event  is  about  to  take  place. 
Every  eye  is  fixed  on  the  stage,  waiting  to  see 
what  will  appear  from  behind  the  dark  arches 
of  the  proscenium.  A  faint,  plaintive  strain  of 
music  floats  out  on  the  silence.  Demons  crawl 
among  the  leafy  shadows.  Not  a  light  is  visible, 
yet  the  centre  of  the  stage  is  in  strong  relief, 
shading  off  into  a  thousand  fantastic  shadows. 
The  audience  sits  in  complete  darkness.  Then 
[  206  ] 


COMEDIE  FRANCHISE  A  ORANGE 

we  see  the  people  of  Argos,  winding  toward  us 
from  among  the  trees,  lamenting,  as  they  have 
done  each  day  for  ten  years,  the  long  absence 
of  their  sons  and  their  king.  The  old  men  no 
longer  dare  to  consult  the  oracles,  fearing  to  learn 
that  all  is  lost.  The  beauty  of  this  lament  roused 
the  first  murmur  of  applause,  each  word,  each 
syllable,  chiming  out  across  that  vast  semicircle 
with  a  clearness  and  an  effect  impossible  to  de 
scribe. 

Now  it  is  the  sentinel,  who  from  his  watch- 
tower  has  caught  the  first  glimpse  of  the  return 
ing  army.  We  hear  him  clashing  like  a  torrent 
down  the  turret  stair;  at  the  doorway,  his  gar 
ments  blown  by  the  wind,  his  body  bending  for 
ward  in  a  splendid  pose  of  joy  and  exultation,  he 
announces  in  a  voice  of  thunder  the  arrival  of 
the  king. 

So  completely  are  the  twenty  thousand  spec 
tators  under  the  spell  of  the  drama  that  at  this 
news  one  can  feel  a  thrill  pass  over  the  throng, 
whom  the  splendid  verses  hold  palpitating  under 
their  charm,  awaiting  only  the  end  of  the  tirade 
to  break  into  applause. 

From  that  moment  the  performance  is  one 
long  triumph.  Clytemnestra  (Madame  Lerou) 
comes  with  her  suite  to  receive  the  king  (Mou- 
net-Sully),  the  conqueror!  I  never  realized  be 
fore  all  the  perfection  that  training  can  give  the 
speaking  voice.  Each  syllable  seemed  to  ring  out 
with  a  bell-like  clearness.  As  she  gradually  rose 


THE    W*AYS    OF 


in  the  last  ad:  to  the  scene  with  Orestes,  I  un 
derstood  the  use  of  the  great  wall  behind  the 
actors.  It  increased  the  power  of  the  voices  and 
lent  them  a  sonority  difficult  to  believe.  The  ef 
fect  was  overwhelming  when,  unable  to  escape 
death,  Clytemnestra  cries  out  her  horrible  im 
precations. 

Mounet-Sully  surpassed  himself.  Paul  Mou- 
net  gave  us  the  complete  illusion  of  a  monster 
thirsting  for  blood,  even  his  mother's!  When 
striking  her  as  she  struck  his  father,  he  answers 
her  despairing  query,  "Thou  wouldst  not  slay 
thy  mother?"  "Woman,  thou  hast  ceased  to  be  a 
mother  !  "  Dudlay  (as  Cassandra)  reaches  a  splen 
did  climax  when  she  prophesies  the  misfortune 
hanging  over  her  family,  which  she  is  powerless 
to  avert. 

It  is  impossible  in  feeble  prose  to  give  any 
idea  of  the  impression  those  lines  produce  in 
the  stupendous  theatre,  packed  to  its  utmost 
limits  —  the  wild  night,  with  a  storm  in  the  air, 
a  stage  which  seems  like  a  clearing  in  some  for 
est  inhabited  by  Titans,  the  terrible  tragedy  of 
^Eschylus  following  the  graceful  fete  of  Apollo. 

After  the  unavoidable  confusion  at  the  begin 
ning,  the  vast  audience  listen  in  profound  silence 
to  an  expression  of  pure  art.  They  are  no  longer 
actors  we  hear,  but  demi-gods.  With  voices  of  the 
storm,  possessed  by  some  divine  afflatus,  thun 
dering  out  verses  of  fire  —  carried  out  of  them 
selves  in  a  whirlwind  of  passion,  like  antique 
[  208  ] 


COMEDIE  FRAN$AISE  A   ORANGE 

prophets  and  Sibyls  foretelling  the  misfortunes 
of  the  world! 

That  night  will  remain  immutably  fixed  in 
my  memory,  if  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  the  theatre 
itself.  We  were  so  moved,  my  companion  and  I, 
and  had  seen  the  crowd  so  moved,  that  fearing 
to  efface  the  impression  if  we  returned  the  sec 
ond  night  to  see  Antigone,  we  came  quietly  away, 
pondering  over  it  all,  and  realizing  once  again 
that  a  thing  of  beauty  is  a  source  of  eternal  de 
light. 


[  209  ] 


A^       26 

Pre-palatial  Newport 

THE  historic  Ocean  House  of  Newport 
is  a  ruin.  Flames  have  laid  low  the  un 
sightly  structure  that  was  at  one  time 
the  best-known  hotel  in  America.  Its  fifty-odd 
years  of  existence,  as  well  as  its  day,  are  over. 
Having  served  a  purpose,  it  has  departed,  to 
gether  with  the  generation  and  habits  of  life  that 
produced  it,  into  the  limbo  where  old  houses, 
old  customs,  and  superannuated  ideas  survive, — 
the  memory  of  the  few  who  like  to  recall  other 
days  and  wander  from  time  to  time  in  a  recon 
structed  past. 

There  was  a  certain  appropriateness  in  the 
manner  of  its  taking  off.  The  proud  old  struc 
ture  had  doubtless  heard  projects  of  rebuilding 
discussed  by  its  owners  (who  for  some  years  had 
been  threatening  to  tear  it  down);  wounded 
doubtless  by  unflattering  truths,  the  hotel  de 
cided  that  if  its  days  were  numbered,  an  exit 
worthy  of  a  leading  role  was  at  least  possible. 
"  Pull  me  down,  indeed !  That  is  all  very  well  for 
ordinary  hostleries,  but  from  an  establishment  of 
my  pretensions,  that  has  received  the  aristocracy 
of  the  country,  and  countless  foreign  swells,  some 
thing  more  is  expected!" 

So  it  turned  the  matter  over  and  debated  within 
its  shaky  old  brain  (Mrs.  Skewton  fashion)  what 


TRE-P  ALATIAL 


would  be  the  most  becoming  and  effective  way 
of  retiring  from  the  social  whirl.  Balls  have  been 
overdone;  people  are  no  longer  tempted  by  re 
ceptions;  a  banquet  was  out  of  the  question.  Sud 
denly  the  wily  building  hit  on  an  idea.  "  I  '11  give 
them  a  feu  cT  artifice.  There  hasn't  been  a  first- 
class  fire  here  since  I  burned  myself  down  fifty- 
three  years  ago!  That  kind  of  entertainment 
has  n't  been  run  into  the  ground  like  everything 
else  in  these  degenerate  days!  I  '11  do  it  in  the 
best  and  most  complete  way,  and  give  Newport 
something  to  talk  about,  whenever  my  name  shall 
be  mentioned  in  the  future!" 

Daudet,  in  his  L  '  Immortel,  shows  us  how  some 
people  are  born  lucky.  His  "Loisel  of  the  Insti 
tute,"  although  an  insignificant  and  commonplace 
man,  succeeded  all  through  life  in  keeping  him 
self  before  the  public,  and  getting  talked  about 
as  a  celebrity.  He  even  arranged  (to  the  disgust 
and  envy  of  his  rivals)  to  die  during  a  week  when 
no  event  of  importance  was  occupying  public 
attention.  In  consequence,  reporters,  being  short 
of  "copy,"  owing  to  a  dearth  of  murders  and 
"first  nights,"  seized  on  this  demise  and  made 
his  funeral  an  event. 

The  truth  is,  the  Ocean  House  had  lived  so 
long  in  an  atmosphere  of  ostentatious  worldli- 
ness  that,  like  many  residents  of  the  summer  city, 
it  had  come  to  take  itself  and  its  "position"  seri 
ously,  and  imagine  that  the  eyes  of  the  country 
were  fixed  upon  and  expected  something  of  it. 


THE    W^TS    OF 


The  air  of  Newport  has  always  proved  fatal  to 
big  hotels.  One  after  another  they  have  appeared 
and  failed,  the  Ocean  House  alone  dragging  out 
a  forlorn  existence.  As  the  flames  worked  their 
will  and  the  careless  crowd  enjoyed  the  spectacle, 
one  could  not  help  feeling  a  vague  regret  for  the 
old  place,  more  for  what  it  represented  than  for 
any  intrinsic  value  of  its  own.  Without  greatly 
stretching  a  point  it  might  be  taken  to  represent 
a  social  condition,  a  phase,  as  it  were,  in  our  de 
velopment.  In  a  certain  obscure  way,  it  was  an 
epoch-marking  structure.  Its  building  closed  the 
era  of  primitive  Newport,  its  decline  corresponded 
with  the  end  of  the  pre-palatial  period  —  an  era 
extending  from  1845  to  I^85. 

During  forty  years  Newport  had  a  unique  ex 
istence,  unknown  to  the  rest  of  America,  and  des 
tined  to  have  a  lasting  influence  on  her  ways, 
an  existence  now  as  completely  forgotten  as  the 
earlier  boarding-house  matinee  dansante  time.* 
The  sixties,  seventies,  and  eighties  in  Newport 
were  pleasant  years  that  many  of  us  regret  in  spite 
of  modern  progress.  Simple,  inexpensive  days, 
when  people  dined  at  three  (looking  on  the  newly 
introduced  six  o'clock  dinners  as  an  English  in 
novation  and  modern  "frill"),  and  "high-teaed" 
together  dyspeptically  off  "sally  lunns"  and 
"preserves,"  washed  down  by  coffee  and  choco 
late,  which  it  was  the  toilsome  duty  of  a  hostess 
to  dispense  from  a  silver-laden  tray;  days  when 

*  "Newport  of  the  Past,"  Worldly  Ways  and  By-ways, 


TRE-TALAriAL     VIEWPORT 

"rockaways"  drawn  by  lean,  long-tailed  horses 
and  driven  by  mustached  darkies  were,  if  not  the 
rule,  far  from  being  an  exception. 

"  Dutch  treat"  picnics,  another  archaic  amuse 
ment,  flourished  then,  directed  by  a  famous  or 
ganizer  at  his  farm,  each  guest  being  told  what 
share  of  the  eatables  it  was  his  duty  to  provide, 
an  edict  from  which  there  was  no  appeal. 

Sport  was  little  known  then,  young  men  pass 
ing  their  afternoons  tooling  solemnly  up  and 
down  Bellevue  Avenue  in  top-hats  and  black 
frock-coats  under  the  burning  August  sun. 

This  was  the  epoch  when  the  Town  and  Coun 
try  Club  was  young  and  full  of  vigor.  We  met  at 
each  other's  houses  or  at  historic  sites  to  hear 
papers  read  on  serious  subjects.  One  particular 
afternoon  is  vivid  in  my  memory.  We  had  all 
driven  out  to  a  point  on  the  shore  beyond  the 
Third  Beach,  where  the  Norsemen  were  supposed 
to  have  landed  during  their  apocryphal  visit  to 
this  continent.  It  had  been  a  hot  drive,  but  when 
we  stopped,  a  keen  wind  was  blowing  in  from 
the  sea.  During  a  pause  in  the  prolix  address  that 
followed,  a  coachman's  voice  was  heard  to  mut 
ter,  "If  he  jaws  much  longer  all  the  horses  will 
be  foundered,"  which  brought  the  learned  address 
to  an  ignominious  and  hasty  termination. 

Newport  during  the  pre-palatial  era  affected 
culture,  and  a  whiff  of  Boston  pervaded  the  air, 
much  of  which  was  tiresome,  yet  with  an  under 
current  of  charm  and  refinement.  Those  who 


had  the  privilege  of  knowing  Mrs.  Julia  Ward 
Howe,  will  remember  the  pleasant  "teas"  and 
sparkling  conversation  she  offered  her  guests  in 
the  unpretending  cottage  where  the  beauty  of 
the  daughter  was  as  brilliant  as  the  mother's  wit. 

Two  estates  on  Bellevue  Avenue  are  now  with 
out  the  hostesses  who,  in  those  days,  showed  the 
world  what  great  ladies  America  could  produce. 
It  was  the  foreign-born  husband  of  one  of  these 
women  who  gave  Newport  its  first  lessons  in  luxu 
rious  living.  Until  then  Americans  had  travelled 
abroad  and  seen  elaborately  served  meals  and 
properly  appointed  stables  without  the  ambi 
tion  of  copying  such  things  at  home.  Colonial 
and  revolutionary  state  had  died  out,  and  mod 
ern  extravagance  had  not  yet  appeared.  In  the 
interregnum  much  was  neglected  that  might  have 
added  to  the  convenience  and  grace  of  life. 

In  France,  under  Louis  Philippe,  and  in  Eng 
land,  during  Victoria's  youth,  taste  reached  an 
ebb  tide;  in  neither  of  those  countries,  however, 
did  the  general  standard  fall  so  low  as  here.  It  was 
owing  to  the  s avoir  fair e  of  one  man  that  New- 
porters  and  New  York  first  saw  at  home  what 
they  had  admired  abroad, — liveried  servants  in 
sufficient  numbers,  dinners  served  a  la  Russe,znd 
breeched  and  booted  grooms  on  English-built 
traps,  innovations  quickly  followed  by  his  neigh 
bors,  for  the  most  marked  characteristic  of  the 
American  is  his  ability  to  "catch  on." 

When,  during  the  war  of  the  secession,  our 


TRE-TA  LATIAL     VIEWPORT 

Naval  Academy  was  removed  from  Annapolis 
and  installed  in  the  empty  Atlantic  House  (cor 
ner  of  Bellevue  Avenue  and  Pelham  Street), 
hotel  life  had  already  begun  to  decline;  but  the 
Ocean  House,  which  was  considered  a  vast  en 
terprise  at  that  time,  inherited  from  the  older 
hotels  the  custom  of  giving  Saturday  evening 
"hops,"  the  cottagers  arriving  at  these  in 
formal  entertainments  toward  nine  o'clock  and 
promenading  up  and  down  the  corridors  or  dan 
cing  in  the  parlor,  to  the  admiration  of  a  public 
collected  to  enjoy  the  spectacle.  At  eleven  the 
doors  of  the  dining-room  opened,  and  a  line  of 
well-drilled  darkies  passed  ices  and  lemonade. 
By  half-past  eleven  (the  hour  at  which  we  now 
arrive  at  a  dance)  every  one  was  at  home  and 
abed. 

One  remembers  with  a  shudder  the  military 
manoeuvres  that  attended  hotel  meals  in  those 
days,  the  marching  and  countermarching,  your 
dinner  cooling  while  the  head  waiter  reviewed  his 
men.  That  idiotic  custom  has  been  abandoned, 
like  many  better  and  worse.  Next  to  the  Ameri 
can  ability  to  catch  on  comes  the  facility  with 
which  he  can  drop  a  fad. 

In  this  peculiarity  the  history  of  Newport  has 
been  an  epitome  of  the  country,  every  form  of 
amusement  being  in  turn  taken  up,  run  into  the 
ground,  and  then  abandoned.  At  one  time  it  was 
the  fashion  to  drive  to  Fort  Adams  of  an  after 
noon  and  circle  round  and  round  the  little  green 


THE    f^^frS    OF 


to  the  sounds  of  a  military  band;  then,  for  no 
visible  reason,  people  took  to  driving  on  the 
Third  Beach,  an  inaccessible  and  lonely  point 
which  for  two  or  three  summers  was  considered 
the  only  correct  promenade. 

I  blush  to  recall  it,  but  at  that  time  most  of 
the  turnouts  were  hired  hacks.  Next,  Graves 
Point,  on  the  Ocean  Drive,  became  the  popular 
meeting-place.  Then  society  took  to  attending 
polo  of  an  afternoon,  a  sport  just  introduced  from 
India.  This  era  corresponded  with  the  opening 
of  the  Casino  (the  old  reading-room  dating  from 
1  854).  For  several  years  every  one  crowded  dur 
ing  hot  August  mornings  onto  the  airless  lawns 
and  piazzas  of  the  new  establishment.  It  seems  on 
looking  back  as  if  we  must  have  been  more  fond 
of  seeing  each  other  in  those  days  than  we  are 
now.  To  ride  up  and  down  a  beach  and  bow 
filled  our  souls  with  joy,  and  the  "cake  walk" 
was  an  essential  part  of  every  ball,  the  guests 
parading  in  pairs  round  and  round  the  room  be 
tween  the  dances  instead  of  sitting  quietly  "out." 
The  opening  promenade  at  the  New  York  Char 
ity  Ball  is  a  survival  of  this  inane  custom. 

The  disappearance  of  the  Ocean  House 
"hops"  marked  the  last  stage  in  hotel  life.  Since 
then  better-class  watering  places  all  over  the  coun 
try  have  slowly  but  surely  followed  Newport's 
lead.  The  closed  caravansaries  of  Bar  Harbor 
and  elsewhere  bear  silent  testimony  to  the  fad 
that  refined  Americans  are  at  last  awakening  to 


TRE-TALATIAL 


the  charms  of  home  life  during  their  holidays, 
and  are  discarding,  as  fast  as  finances  will  per 
mit,  the  pernicious  herding  system.  In  conse 
quence  the  hotel  has  ceased  to  be,  what  it  un 
doubtedly  was  twenty  years  ago,  the  focus  of 
our  summer  life. 

Only  a  few  charred  rafters  remain  of  the  Ocean 
House.  A  few  talkative  old  duffers  like  myself 
alone  survive  the  day  it  represents.  Changing 
social  conditions  have  gradually  placed  both  on 
the  retired  list.  A  new  and  palatial  Newport  has 
replaced  the  simpler  city.  Let  us  not  waste  too 
much  time  regretting  the  past,  or  be  too  sure 
that  itwas  better  than  the  present.  It  is  quite  pos 
sible,  if  the  old  times  we  are  writing  so  fondly 
about  should  return,  we  might  discover  that  the 
same  thing  was  true  of  them  as  a  ragged  urchin 
asserted  the  other  afternoon  of  the  burning  build 
ing: 

"Say,  Tom,  did  ye  know  there  was  the  big 
gest  room  in  the  world  in  that  hotel?" 

"No;  what  room?" 

"Room  for  improvement,  ya!" 


N°-    27 

Sardou  at  Marly-le-Roy 

NEAR  the  centre  of  that  verdant  triangle 
formed  by  Saint  Cloud,  Versailles,  and 
Saint  Germain  lies  the  village  of  Mar 
ly-le-Roy,  high  up  on  a  slope  above  the  lazy 
Seine — an  entrancing  corner  of  the  earth,  much 
affected  formerly  by  French  crowned  heads,  and 
by  the  "Sun  King"  in  particular,  who  in  his  old 
age  grew  tired  of  Versailles  and  built  here  one 
of  his  many  villas  (the  rival  in  its  day  of  the 
Trianons),  and  proceeded  to  amuse  himself  there 
in  with  the  same  solemnity  which  had  already 
made  vice  at  Versailles  more  boresome  than  vir 
tue  elsewhere. 

Two  centuries  and  four  revolutions  have  swept 
away  all  trace  of  this  kingly  caprice  and  the  art 
treasures  it  contained.  Alone,  the  marble  horses 
of  Coustou,  transported  later  to  the  Champs 
Elysees,  remain  to  attest  the  splendor  of  the  past. 

The  quaint  village  of  Marly,  clustered  around 
its  church,  'stands,  however — with  the  faculty 
that  insignificant  things  have  of  remaining  un 
changed — as  it  did  when  the  most  polished 
court  of  Europe  rode  through  it  to  and  from 
the  hunt.  On  the  outskirts  of  this  village  are 
now  two  forged  and  gilded  gateways  through 
which  the  passer-by  can  catch  a  glimpse  of  trim 
avenues,  fountains,  and  well-kept  lawns. 


SARDOU    dr    3M.  ARLT-LE-^OT 

There  seems  a  certain  poetical  justice  in  the 
fact  that  Alexandre  Dumas  fils  and  Victorien 
Sardou,  the  two  giants  of  modern  drama,  should 
have  divided  between  them  the  inheritance  of 
Louis  XIV.,  its  greatest  patron.  One  of  the  gates 
is  closed  and  moss-grown.  Its  owner  lies  in  Pere- 
la-Chaise.  At  the  other  I  ring,  and  am  soon 
walking  up  the  famous  avenue  bordered  by  co 
lossal  sphinxes  presented  to  Sardou  by  the  late 
Khedive.  The  big  stone  brutes,  connected  in 
one's  mind  with  heat  and  sandy  wastes,  look 
oddly  out  of  place  here  in  this  green  wilder 
ness — a  bite,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  forest  which, 
under  different  names,  lies  like  a  mantle  over  the 
country-side. 

Five  minutes  later  I  am  being  shown  through 
a  suite  of  antique  salons,  in  the  last  of  which  sits 
the  great  playwright.  How  striking  the  likeness 
is  to  Voltaire, — the  same  delicate  face,  lit  by  a 
half  cordial,  half  mocking  smile;  the  same  fragile 
body  and  indomitable  spirit.  The  illusion  is  en 
hanced  by  our  surroundings,  for  the  mellow  splen 
dor  of  the  room  where  we  stand  might  have 
served  as  a  background  for  the  Sage  of  Ferney. 

Wherever  one  looks,  works  of  eighteenth-cen 
tury  art  meet  the  eye.  The  walls  are  hung  with 
Gobelin  tapestries  that  fairly  take  one's  breath 
away,  so  exquisite  is  their  design  and  their  pres 
ervation.  They  represent  a  marble  colonnade, 
each  column  of  which  is  wreathed  with  flowers 
and  connected  to  its  neighbor  with  garlands. 
[  219  ] 


THE    W^TS    OF 


Between  them  are  bits  of  delicate  landscape,  with 
here  and  there  a  group  of  figures  dancing  or 
picnicking  in  the  shadow  of  tall  trees  or  under 
fantastical  porticos.  The  furniture  of  the  room 
is  no  less  marvellous  than  its  hangings.  One 
turns  from  a  harpsichord  of  vernis-martin  to  the 
clock,  a  relic  from  Louis  XIV.  's  bedroom  in 
Versailles;  on  to  the  bric-a-brac  of  old  Saxe  or 
Sevres  in  admiring  wonder.  My  host  drifts  into 
his  showman  manner,  irresistibly  comic  in  this 
writer. 

The  pleasures  of  the  collector  are  apparently 
divided  into  three  phases,  without  counting  the 
rapture  of  the  hunt.  First,  the  delight  a  true 
amateur  takes  in  living  among  rare  and  beauti 
ful  things.  Second,  the  satisfaction  of  showing 
one's  treasures  to  less  fortunate  mortals,  and  last, 
but  perhaps  keenest  of  all,  the  pride  which  comes 
from  the  fact  that  one  has  been  clever  enough 
to  acquire  objects  which  other  people  want,  at 
prices  below  their  market  value.  Sardou  evidently 
enjoys  these  three  sensations  vividly.  That  he 
lives  with  and  loves  his  possessions  is  evident, 
and  the  smile  with  which  he  calls  your  attention 
to  one  piece  after  another,  and  mentions  what 
they  cost  him,  attests  that  the  two  other  joys  are 
not  unknown  to  him.  He  is  old  enough  to  re 
member  the  golden  age  when  really  good  things 
were  to  be  picked  up  for  modest  sums,  before 
every  parvenu  considered  it  necessary  to  turn  his 
house  into  a  museum,  and  factories  existed  for 
[  220  ] 


SARDOU    <AT     3VL  ARLY-LE-^OT 

the  production  of  "antiques"  to  be  sold  to  in 
nocent  amateurs. 

In  calling  attention  to  a  set  of  carved  and 
gilded  furniture,  covered  in  Beauvais  tapestry, 
such  as  sold  recently  in  Paris  at  the  Valen^ay  sale 
— Talleyrand  collection — for  sixty  thousand 
dollars,  Sardou  mentions  with  a  laugh  that  he  got 
his  fifteen  pieces  for  fifteen  hundred  dollars,  the 
year  after  the  war,  from  an  old  chateau  back  of 
Cannes!  One  unique  piece  of  tapestry  had  cost 
him  less  than  one-tenth  of  that  sum.  He  dis 
covered  it  in  a  peasant's  stable  under  a  two-foot 
layer  of  straw  and  earth,  where  it  had  probably 
been  hidden  a  hundred  years  before  by  its  owner, 
and  then  all  record  of  it  lost  by  his  descendants. 

The  mention  of  Cannes  sets  Sardou  off"  on 
another  train  of  thought.  His  family  for  three 
generations  have  lived  there.  Before  that  they 
were  Sardinian  fishermen.  His  great-grandfather, 
he  imagines,  was  driven  by  some  tempest  to  the 
shore  near  Cannes  and  settled  where  he  found 
himself.  Hence  the  name!  For  in  the  patois  of 
Provencal  France  an  inhabitant  of  Sardinia  is 
still  called  un  Sardou. 

The  sun  is  off"  the  front  of  the  house  by  this 
time,  so  we  migrate  to  a  shady  corner  of  the  lawn 
for  OUF  aperitif^  the  inevitable  vermouth  or 
"bitters"  which  Frenchmen  take  at  five  o'clock. 
Here  another  surprise  awaits  the  visitor,  who  has 
not  realized,  perhaps,  to  what  high  ground  the 
crawling  local  train  has  brought  him.  At  our  feet, 
[  221  ] 


THE    W,AY$    OF 


far  below  the  lawn  and  shade  trees  that  encircle 
the  chateau,  lies  the  Seine,  twisting  away  toward 
Saint  Germain,  whose  terrace  and  dismantled  pal 
ace  stand  outlined  against  the  sky.  To  our  right 
is  the  plain  of  Saint  Denis,  the  cathedral  in  its 
midst  looking  like  an  opera-glass  on  a  green 
table.  Further  still  to  the  right,  as  one  turns  the 
corner  of  the  terrace,  lies  Paris,  a  white  line  on  the 
horizon,  broken  by  the  mass  of  the  Arc  de  Tri- 
omphe,  the  roof  of  the  Opera,  and  the  Eiffel 
Tower,  resplendent  in  a  fresh  coat  of  yellow  lac 
quer! 

The  ground  where  we  stand  was  occupied  by 
the  feudal  castle  of  Les  Sires  de  Marly;  although 
all  traces  of  that  stronghold  disappeared  centu 
ries  ago,  the  present  owner  of  the  land  points 
out  with  pride  that  the  extraordinary  beauty  of 
the  trees  around  his  house  is  owing  to  the  fact 
that  their  roots  reach  deep  down  to  the  rich  loam 
collected  during  centuries  in  the  castle's  moat. 

The  little  chateau  itself,  built  during  the  reign 
of  Louis  XIV.  for  the  grand-veneur  of  the  for 
est  of  Marly,  is  intensely  French  in  type,  —  a 
long,  low  building  on  a  stone  terrace,  with  no 
trace  of  ornament  about  its  white  facade  or  on  its 
slanting  roof.  Inside,  all  the  rooms  are  "front," 
communicating  with  each  other  en  suite,  and  open 
into  a  corridor  running  the  length  of  the  build 
ing  at  the  back,  which,  in  turn,  opens  on  a  stone 
court.  Two  lateral  wings  at  right  angles  to  the 
main  building  form  the  sides  of  this  courtyard, 
[  111  ] 


SARDOU    ^T    fM  A  RLT-LE-^OT 

and  contain  les  communs,  the  kitchen,  laundry, 
servants'  rooms,  and  the  other  annexes  of  a  large 
establishment.  This  arrangement  for  a  summer 
house  is  for  some  reason  neglected  by  our  Amer 
ican  architects.  I  can  recall  only  one  home  in 
America  built  on  this  plan.  It  is  Giraud  Foster's 
beautiful  villa  at  Lenox.  You  may  visit  five  hun 
dred  French  chateaux  and  not  find  one  that  dif 
fers  materially  from  this  plan.  The  American 
idea  seems  on  the  contrary  to  be  a  square  house 
with  a  room  in  each  corner,  and  all  the  servants' 
quarters  stowed  away  in  a  basement.  Cottage  and 
palace  go  on  reproducing  that  foolish  and  incon 
venient  arrangement  indefinitely. 

After  an  hour's  chat  over  our  drinks,  during 
which  my  host  has  rippled  on  from  one  subject 
to  another  with  the  lightness  of  touch  of  a  born 
talker,  we  get  on  to  the  subject  of  the  grounds, 
and  his  plans  for  their  improvement. 

Good  luck  has  placed  in  Sardou's  hands  an  old 
map  of  the  gardens  as  they  existed  in  the  time 
of  Louis  XV.,  and  several  prints  of  the  chateau 
dating  from  about  the  same  epoch  have  found 
their  way  into  his  portfolios.  The  grounds  are, 
under  his  care,  slowly  resuming  the  appearance  of 
former  days.  Old  avenues  reopen,  statues  reap 
pear  on  the  disused  pedestals,  fountains  play 
again,  and  clipped  hedges  once  more  line  out  the 
terraced  walks. 

In  order  to  explain  how  complete  this  work 
will  be  in  time,  Sardou  hurries  me  off  to  inspect 


THE    WJITS    OF 


another  part  of  his  collection.  Down  past  the 
stables,  in  an  unused  corner  of  the  grounds,  long 
sheds  have  been  erected,  under  which  is  stored 
the  debris  of  a  dozen  palaces,  an  assortment  of 
eighteenth-century  art  that  could  not  be  dupli 
cated  even  in  France. 

One  shed  shelters  an  entire  semicircle  of 
trelllage^  pure  Louis  XV.,  an  exquisite  example 
of  a  lost  art.  Columns,  domes,  panels,  are  packed 
away  in  straw  awaiting  resurrection  in  some  cor 
ner  hereafter  to  be  chosen.  A  dozen  seats  in  rose- 
colored  marble  from  Fontainebleau  are  huddled 
together  near  by  in  company  with  a  row  of  gi 
gantic  marble  masques  brought  originally  from 
Italy  to  decorate  Fouquet's  fountains  at  his  cha 
teau  of  Vaux  in  the  short  day  of  its  glory.  Just 
how  this  latter  find  is  to  be  utilized  their  owner 
has  not  yet  decided.  The  problem,  however,  to 
judge  from  his  manner,  is  as  important  to  the 
great  playwright  as  the  plot  of  his  next  drama. 

That  the  blood  of  an  antiquarian  runs  in  Sar- 
dou's  veins  is  evident  in  the  subdued  excitement 
with  which  he  shows  you  his  possessions  —  stat 
ues  from  Versailles,  forged  gates  and  balconies 
from  Saint  Cloud,  the  carved  and  gilded  wood 
work  for  a  dozen  rooms  culled  from  the  four 
corners  of  France.  Like  the  true  dramatist,  he 
has,  however,  kept  his  finest  effect  for  the  last. 
In  the  centre  of  a  circular  rose  garden  near  by 
stands,  alone  in  its  beauty,  a  column  from  the  fa- 
of  the  Tuileries,  as  perfect  from  base  to 
[  224  ] 


SARDOU    *AT    ZMARLY-LE-  TO  T 


flower-crowned  capital  as  when  Philibert  De- 
lorme's  workmen  laid  down  their  tools. 

Years  ago  Sardou  befriended  a  young  stone 
mason,  who  through  this  timely  aid  prospered, 
and,  becoming  later  a  rich  builder,  received  in 
1882  from  the  city  of  Paris  the  contract  to  tear 
down  the  burned  ruins  of  the  Tuileries.  While 
inspecting  the  palace  before  beginning  the  work 
of  demolition,  he  discovered  one  column  that 
had  by  a  curious  chance  escaped  both  the  flames 
of  the  Commune  and  the  patriotic  ardor  of  1793, 
which  effaced  all  royal  emblems  from  church  and 
palace  alike.  Remembering  his  benefactor's  love 
for  antiquities  with  historical  associations,  the 
grateful  contractor  appeared  one  day  at  Marly 
with  this  column  on  a  dray,  and  insisted  on  erect 
ing  it  where  it  now  stands,  pointing  out  to  Sardou 
with  pride  the  crowned  "H,"  of  Henri  Quatre, 
and  the  entwined  "  M.  M."  of  Marie  de  Medicis, 
topped  by  the  Florentine  lily  in  the  flutings  of 
the  shaft  and  on  the  capital. 

A  question  of  mine  on  Sardou's  manner  of 
working  led  to  our  abandoning  the  gardens  and 
mounting  to  the  top  floor  of  the  chateau,  where 
his  enormous  library  and  collection  of  prints  are 
stored  in  a  series  of  little  rooms  or  alcoves,  lighted 
from  the  top  and  opening  on  a  corridor  which 
runs  the  length  of  the  building.  In  each  room 
stands  a  writing-table  and  a  chair;  around  the  walls 
from  floor  to  ceiling  and  in  huge  portfolios  are 
arranged  his  books  and  engravings  according  to 


THE    W^TS    OF 


their  subject.  The  Empire  alcove,  for  instance, 
contains  nothing  but  publications  and  pictures 
relating  to  that  epoch.  Roman  and  Greek  history 
have  their  alcoves,  as  have  mediaeval  history  and 
the  reigns  of  the  different  Louis.  Nothing  could 
well  be  conceived  more  conducive  to  study  than 
this  arrangement,  and  it  makes  one  realize  how 
honest  was  the  master's  reply  when  asked  what 
was  his  favorite  amusement.  "Work!"  answered 
the  author. 

Our  conversation,  as  was  fated,  soon  turned  to 
the  enormous  success  of  Robespierre  in  London 
—  a  triumph  that  even  Sardou's  many  brilliant 
victories  had  not  yet  equalled. 

It  is  characteristic  of  the  French  disposition 
that  neither  the  author  nor  any  member  of  his 
family  could  summon  courage  to  undertake  the 
prodigious  journey  from  Paris  to  London  in  or 
der  to  see  the  first  performance.  Even  Sardou's 
business  agent,  M.  Roget,  did  not  get  further 
than  Calais,  where  his  courage  gave  out.  "The 
sea  was  so  terrible  !  "  Both  those  gentlemen,  how 
ever,  took  it  quite  as  a  matter  of  course  that 
Sardou's  American  agent  should  make  a  three- 
thousand-mile  journey  to  be  present  at  the  first 
night. 

The  fact  that  the  French  author  resisted  Sir 
Henry  Irving's  pressing  invitations  to  visit  him 
in  no  way  indicates  a  lack  of  interest  in  the  suc 
cess  of  the  play.  I  had  just  arrived  from  London, 
and  so  had  to  go  into  every  detail  of  the  per- 
[  226  ] 


S4RDOU    exfr    3WARLT-LE-       O  T 


formance,  a  rather  delicate  task,  as  I  had  been 
discouraged  with  the  acting  of  both  Miss  Terry 
and  Irving,  who  have  neither  of  them  the  age, 
voice,  nor  temperament  to  represent  either  the 
revolutionary  tyrant  or  the  woman  he  betrayed. 
As  the  staging  had  been  excellent,  I  enlarged 
on  that  side  of  the  subject,  but  when  pressed  into 
a  corner  by  the  author,  had  to  acknowledge  that 
in  the  scene  where  Robespierre,  alone  at  midnight 
in  the  Conciergerie,  sees  the  phantoms  of  his  vic 
tims  advance  from  the  surrounding  shadows  and 
form  a  menacing  circle  around  him,  Irving  had 
used  his  poor  voice  with  so  little  skill  that  there 
was  little  left  for  the  splendid  climax,  when,  in 
trying  to  escape  from  his  ghastly  visitors,  Robe 
spierre  finds  himself  face  to  face  with  Marie  An 
toinette,  and  with  a  wild  cry,  half  of  horror,  half 
of  remorse,  falls  back  insensible. 

In  spite  of  previous  good  resolutions,  I  must 
have  given  the  author  the  impression  that  Sir 
Henry  spoke  too  loud  at  the  beginning  of  this 
scene  and  was  in  consequence  inadequate  at  the 
end. 

"What!"  cried  Sardou.  "He  raised  his  voice 
in  that  act!  Why,  it  's  a  scene  to  be  played  with 
the  soft  pedal  down!  This  is  the  way  it  should 
be  done!"  Dropping  into  a  chair  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  my  host  began  miming  the  gestures 
and  expression  of  Robespierre  as  the  phantoms 
(which,  after  all,  are  but  the  figments  of  an  over 
wrought  brain)  gather  around  him.  Gradually  he 


THE    W.AYS    OF 


slipped  to  the  floor,  hiding  his  face  with  his  up 
raised  elbow,  whispering  and  sobbing,  but  never 
raising  his  voice  until,  staggering  toward  the  por 
tal  to  escape,  he  meets  the  Queen  face  to  face. 
Then  the  whole  force  of  his  voice  came  out  in 
one  awful  cry  that  fairly  froze  the  blood  in  my 
veins! 

"What  a  teacher  you  would  make!"  instinc 
tively  rose  to  my  lips  as  he  ended. 

With  a  careless  laugh,  Sardou  resumed  his 
shabby  velvet  cap,  which  had  fallen  to  the  floor, 
and  answered:  "Oh,  it  's  nothing!  I  only  wanted 
to  prove  to  you  that  the  scene  was  not  a  fati 
guing  one  for  the  voice  if  played  properly.  I  'm 
no  aclor  and  could  not  teach,  but  any  one  ought 
to  know  enough  not  to  shout  in  that  scene!" 

This  with  some  bitterness,  as  news  had  arrived 
that  Irving's  voice  had  given  out  the  night  be 
fore,  and  he  had  been  replaced  by  his  half-baked 
son  in  the  title  role,  a  change  hardly  calculated 
to  increase  either  the  box-office  receipts  or  the 
success  of  the  new  drama. 

Certain  ominous  shadows  which,  like  Robe 
spierre's  visions,  had  been  for  some  time  gather 
ing  in  the  corners  of  the  room  warned  me  that 
the  hour  had  come  for  my  trip  back  to  Paris. 
Declining  reluclantly  an  invitation  to  take  pot- 
luck  with  my  host,  I  was  soon  in  the  Avenue 
of  the  Sphinx  again.  As  we  strolled  along,  talking 
of  the  past  and  its  charm,  a  couple  of  men  passed 
us,  carrying  a  piece  of  furniture  rolled  in  burlaps. 
[  228  ] 


SARDOU    e/fr    fM  ARLT-LE- 

"  Another  acquisition  ? "  I  asked. "  What  epoch 
has  tempted  you  this  time?" 

"I  'm  sorry  you  won't  stop  and  inspect  it," 
answered  Sardou  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "It 's 
something  I  bought  yesterday  for  my  bedroom. 
An  armchair!  Pure  Loubet!" 


[  229  ] 


N°-  28 

Inconsistencies 


THE  dinner  had  been  unusually  long  and 
the  summer  evening  warm.  During  the 
wait  before  the  dancing  began  I  must 
have  dropped  asleep  in  the  dark  corner  of  the 
piazza  where  I  had  installed  myself,  to  smoke 
my  cigar,  away  from  the  other  men  and  their  tire 
some  chatter  of  golf  and  racing.  Through  the 
open  window  groups  of  women  could  be  seen  in 
the  ball-room,  and  the  murmur  of  their  conver 
sation  floated  out,  mingling  with  the  laughter  of 
the  men. 

Suddenly,  in  that  casual  way  peculiar  to  dreams, 
I  found  myself  conversing  with  a  solemn  young 
Turk,  standing  in  all  the  splendor  of  fez  and 
stambouline  beside  my  chair. 

"Pardon,  Effendi,"  he  was  murmuring.  "Is 
this  an  American  ball  ?  I  was  asked  at  nine  o'clock ; 
it  is  nowpast  eleven.  Is  there  not  some  mistake?" 

"None,"  I  answered.  "When  a  hostess  puts 
nine  o'clock  on  her  card  of  invitation  she  ex- 
peds  her  guests  at  eleven  or  half-past,  and  would 
be  much  embarrassed  to  be  taken  literally." 

As  we  were  speaking,  our  host  rose.  The  men, 
reluctantly  throwing  away  their  cigars,  began  to 
enter  the  ball-room  through  the  open  windows. 
On  their  approach  the  groups  of  women  broke 
up,  the  men  joining  the  girls  where  they  sat,  or 

[  230  ] 


INCONSISTENCIES 


inviting  them  out  to  the  lantern-lit  piazza,  where 
the  couples  retired  to  dim,  palm-embowered  cor 
ners. 

"Are  you  sure  I  have  not  made  a  mistake?" 
asked  my  interlocutor,  with  a  faint  quiver  of  the 
eyelids.  "It  is  my  intention,  while  travelling,  to 
remain  faithful  to  my  harem." 

I  hastened  to  reassure  him  and  explain  that 
he  was  in  an  exclusive  and  reserved  society. 

"Indeed,"  he  murmured  incredulously. 
"When  I  was  passing  through  New  York  last 
winter  a  lady  was  pointed  out  to  me  as  the  owner 
of  marvellous  jewels  and  vast  wealth,  but  with 
absolutely  no  social  position.  My  informant 
added  that  no  well-born  woman  would  receive 
her  or  her  husband. 

"It's  foolish,  of  course,  but  the  handsome 
woman  with  the  crown  on,  sitting  in  the  centre 
of  that  circle,  looks  very  like  the  woman  I  mean. 
Am  I  right?" 

"It's  the  same  lady,"  I  answered,  wearily. 
"You  are  speaking  of  last  year.  No  one  could  be 
induced  to  call  on  the  couple  then.  Now  we  all  go 
to  their  house,  and  entertain  them  in  return." 

"They  have  doubtless  done  some  noble  ac 
tion,  or  the  reports  about  the  husband  have  been 
proved  false?" 

"Nothing  of  the  kind  has  taken  place.  She's 
a  success,  and  no  one  asks  any  questions!  In 
spite  of  that,  you  are  in  a  society  where  the  stan 
dard  of  conduct  is  held  higher  than  in  any  coun- 


THE    WtATS    OF    3W  E 


try  of  Europe,  by  a  race  of  women  more  virtu 
ous,  in  all  probability,  than  has  yet  been  seen. 
There  is  not  a  man  present,"  I  added,  "who 
would  presume  to  take,  or  a  woman  who  would 
permit,  a  liberty  so  slight  even  as  the  resting  of 
a  youth's  arm  across  the  back  of  her  chair." 

While  I  was  speaking,  an  invisible  orchestra 
began  to  sigh  out  the  first  passionate  bars  of  a 
waltz.  A  dozen  couples  rose,  the  men  clasping 
in  their  arms  the  slender  matrons,  whose  smiling 
faces  sank  to  their  partners'  shoulders.  A  blond 
mustache  brushed  the  forehead  of  a  girl  as  she 
swept  by  us  to  the  rhythm  of  the  music,  and  other 
cheeks  seemed  about  to  touch  as  couples  glided 
on  in  unison. 

The  sleepy  Oriental  eyes  of  my  new  acquaint 
ance  opened  wide  with  astonishment. 

"This,  you  must  understand,"  I  continued, 
hastily,  "is  quite  another  matter.  Those  people 
are  waltzing.  It  is  considered  perfectly  proper, 
when  the  musicians  over  there  play  certain  meas 
ures,  for  men  to  take  apparent  liberties.  Our 
women  are  infinitely  self-respecliing,  and  a  man 
who  put  his  arm  around  a  woman  (in  public) 
while  a  different  measure  was  being  played,  or 
when  there  was  no  music,  would  be  ostracized 
from  polite  society." 

"I  am  beginning  to  understand,"  replied  the 
Turk.  "The  husbands  and  brothers  of  these 
women  guard  them  very  carefully.  Those  men  I 
see  out  there  in  the  dark  are  doubtless  with  their 


INCONSISTENCIES 


wives  and  sisters,  protecting  them  from  the  ad 
vances  of  other  men.  Am  I  right?" 

"Of  course  you  're  not  right,"  I  snapped  out, 
beginning  to  lose  my  temper  at  his  obtuseness. 
"  No  husband  would  dream  of  talking  to  his  wife 
in  public,  or  of  sitting  with  her  in  a  corner.  Every 
one  would  be  laughing  at  them.  Nor  could  a  sis 
ter  be  induced  to  remain  away  from  the  ball-room 
with  her  brother.  Those  girls  are  *  sitting  out' 
with  young  men  they  like,  indulging  in  a  little 
innocent  flirtation." 

"What  is  that?"  he  asked.  "Flirtation?" 

"An  American  custom  rather  difficult  to  ex 
plain.  It  may,  however,  be  roughly  defined  as  the 
art  of  leading  a  man  a  long  way  on  the  road  to — 
nowhere!" 

"Women  flirt  with  friends  or  acquaintances, 
never  with  members  of  their  family?" 

"The  husbands  are  those  dejected  individuals 
wandering  aimlessly  about  over  there  like  lost 
souls.  They  are  mostly  rich  men,  who,  having 
married  beautiful  girls  for  love,  wear  themselves 
out  maintaining  elaborate  and  costly  establish 
ments  for  them.  In  return  for  his  labor  a  hus 
band,  however,  enjoys  but  little  of  his  wife's 
society,  for  a  really  fashionable  woman  can  rarely 
be  induced  to  go  home  until  she  has  collapsed 
with  fatigue.  In  consequence,  she  contributes  lit 
tle  but  'nerves'  and  temper  to  the  household. 
Her  sweetest  smiles,  like  her  freshest  toilets, 
are  kept  for  the  public.  The  husband  is  the  last 


THE    WtATS    OF    3W  E 


person  considered  in  an  American  household. 
If  you  doubt  what  I  say,  look  behind  you.  There 
is  a  newly  married  man  speaking  with  his  wife, 
and  trying  to  persuade  her  to  leave  before  the 
cotillion  begins.  Notice  his  apologetic  air!  He 
knows  he  is  interrupting  a  tender  conversation 
and  taking  an  unwarrantable  liberty.  Nothing 
short  of  extreme  fatigue  would  drive  him  to  such 
an  extremity.  The  poor  millionnaire  has  hardly 
left  his  desk  in  Wall  Street  during  the  week,  and 
only  arrived  this  evening  in  time  to  dress  for 
dinner.  He  would  give  a  fair  slice  of  his  income 
for  a  night's  rest.  See!  He  has  failed,  and  is 
lighting  another  cigar,  preparing,  with  a  sigh, 
for  a  long  wait.  It  will  be  three  before  my  lady 
is  ready  to  leave." 

After  a  silence  of  some  minutes,  during  which 
he  appeared  to  be  turning  these  remarks  over  in 
his  mind,  the  young  Oriental  resumed:  "The 
single  men  who  absorb  so  much  of  your  women's 
time  and  attention  are  doubtless  the  most  dis 
tinguished  of  the  nation,  —  writers,  poets,  and 
statesmen?" 

I  was  obliged  to  confess  that  this  was  not  the 
case  ;  that,  on  the  contrary,  the  dancing  bachelors 
were  for  the  most  part  impecunious  youths  of  ab 
solutely  no  importance,  asked  by  the  hostess  to 
fill  in,  and  so  lightly  considered  that  a  woman 
did  not  always  recognize  in  the  street  her  guests 
of  the  evening  before. 

At  this  moment  my   neighbor's  expression 


INCONSISTENCIES 


changed  from  bewilderment  to  admiration,  as  a 
young  and  very  lovely  matron  threw  herself, 
panting,  into  a  low  chair  at  his  side.  Her  decol 
lete  was  so  daring  that  the  doubts  of  half  an  hour 
before  were  evidently  rising  afresh  in  his  mind. 
Hastily  resuming  my  task  of  mentor,  I  explained 
that  a  decollete  corsage  was  an  absolute  rule  for 
evening  gatherings.  A  woman  who  appeared  in 
a  high  bodice  or  with  her  neck  veiled  would  be 
considered  lacking  in  politeness  to  her  hostess  as 
much  if  she  wore  a  bonnet. 

"With  us,  women  go  into  the  world  to  shine 
and  charm.  It  is  only  natural  they  should  use  all 
the  weapons  nature  has  given  them." 

"Very  good!"  exclaimed  the  astonished  Otto 
man.  "  But  where  will  all  this  end?  You  began  by 
allowing  your  women  to  appear  in  public  with 
their  faces  unveiled,  then  you  suppressed  the  fichu 
and  the  collarette,  and  now  you  rob  them  of  half 
their  corsage.  Where,  O  Allah,  will  you  stop?" 

"Ah!"  I  answered,  laughing,  "the  tendency 
of  civilization  is  to  simplify;  many  things  may 
yet  disappear." 

"  I  understand  perfectly.  You  have  no  preju 
dices  against  women  wearing  in  public  toilets 
that  we  consider  fitted  only  for  strict  intimacy. 
In  that  case  your  ladies  may  walk  about  the 
streets  in  these  costumes?" 

"Not  at  all!"  I  cried.  "It  would  provoke  a 
scandal  if  a  woman  were  to  be  seen  during  the 
daytime  in  such  attire,  either  at  home  or  abroad. 


THE    WtrfrS    OF 


The  police  and  the  law  courts  would  interfere. 
Evening  dress  is  intended  only  for  reunions  in 
private  houses,  or  at  most,  to  be  worn  at  enter 
tainments  where  the  company  is  carefully  se 
lected  and  the  men  asked  from  lists  prepared  by 
the  ladies  themselves.  No  lady  would  wear  a  ball 
costume  or  her  jewels  in  a  building  where  the 
general  public  was  admitted.  In  London  great 
ladies  dine  at  restaurants  in  full  evening  dress, 
but  we  Americans,  like  the  French,  consider 
that  vulgar." 

"Yet,  last  winter,"  he  said,  "when  passing 
through  New  York,  I  went  to  a  great  theatre, 
where  there  were  an  orchestra  and  many  singing 
people.  Were  not  those  respeclable  women  I  saw 
in  the  boxes?  There  were  no  moucharabies  to 
screen  them  from  the  eyes  of  the  public.  Were 
all  the  men  in  that  building  asked  by  special  in 
vitation?  That  could  hardly  be  possible,  for  I 
paid  an  entrance  fee  at  the  door.  From  where 
I  sat  I  could  see  that,  as  each  lady  entered  her 
box,  opera-glasses  were  fixed  on  her,  and  her 
'points,'  as  you  say,  discussed  by  the  crowd  of 
men  in  the  corridors,  who,  apparently,  belonged 
to  quite  the  middle  class." 

"  My  poor,  innocent  Padischa,  you  do  not  un 
derstand  at  all.  That  was  the  opera,  which  makes 
all  the  difference.  The  husbands  of  those  women 
pay  enormous  prices,  expressly  that  their  wives 
may  exhibit  themselves  in  public,  decked  in 
jewels  and  suggestive  toilets.  You  could  buy  a 


INCONSISTENCIES 


whole  harem  of  fair  Circassians  for  what  one  of 
those  little  square  boxes  costs.  A  lady  whose 
entrance  caused  no  sensation  would  feel  bitterly 
disappointed.  As  a  rule,  she  knows  little  about 
music,  and  cares  still  less,  unless  some  singer  is 
performing  who  is  paid  a  fabulous  price,  which 
gives  his  notes  a  peculiar  charm.  With  us  most 
things  are  valued  by  the  money  they  have  cost. 
Ladies  attend  the  opera  simply  and  solely  to  see 
their  friends  and  be  admired. 

"It  grieves  me  to  see  that  you  are  forming  a 
poor  opinion  of  our  womankind,  for  they  are  more 
charming  and  modest  than  any  foreign  women.  A 
girl  or  matron  who  exhibits  more  of  her  shoulders 
than  you,  with  your  Eastern  ideas,  think  quite 
proper,  would  sooner  expire  than  show  an  inch 
above  her  ankle.  We  have  our  way  of  being  mod 
est  as  well  as  you,  and  that  is  one  of  our  strong 
est  prejudices." 

"Now  I  know  you  are  joking,"  he  replied, 
with  a  slight  show  of  temper,  "or  trying  to  mys 
tify  me,  for  only  this  morning  I  was  on  the  beach 
watching  the  bathing,  and  I  saw  a  number  of 
ladies  in  quite  short  skirts — up  to  their  knees, 
in  fact  —  with  the  thinnest  covering  on  their 
shapely  extremities.  Were  those  women  above 
suspicion?" 

"Absolutely,"  I  assured  him,  feeling  inclined 
to  tear  my  hair  at  such  stupidity.  "  Can't  you  see 
the  difference?  That  was  in  daylight.  Our  cus 
toms  allow  a  woman  to  show  her  feet,  and  even 

[  237  ] 


THE    ir<JrS    OF 


a  little  more,  in  the  morning.  It  would  be  con 
sidered  the  acme  of  indecency  to  let  those  beau 
ties  be  seen  at  a  ball.  The  law  allows  a  woman 
to  uncover  her  neck  and  shoulders  at  a  ball,  but 
she  would  be  arrested  if  she  appeared  decollete 
on  the  beach  of  a  morning." 

A  long  silence  followed,  broken  only  by  the 
music  and  laughter  from  the  ball-room.  I  could 
see  my  dazed  Mohammedan  remove  his  fez  and 
pass  an  agitated  hand  through  his  dark  hair;  then 
he  turned,  and  saluting  me  gravely,  murmured: 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  have  taken  so  much 
trouble  with  me.  I  do  not  doubt  that  what  you 
have  said  is  full  of  the  wisdom  and  consistency  of 
a  new  civilization,  which  I  fail  to  appreciate." 
Then,  with  a  sigh,  he  added:  "It  will  be  better 
for  me  to  return  to  my  own  country,  where  there 
are  fewer  exceptions  to  rules." 

With  a  profound  salaam  the  gentle  youth  dis 
appeared  into  the  surrounding  darkness,  leaving 
me  rubbing  my  eyes  and  asking  myself  if,  after 
all,  the  dreamland  Oriental  was  not  about  right. 
Custom  makes  many  inconsistencies  appear  so 
logical  that  they  no  longer  cause  us  either  sur 
prise  or  emotion.  But  can  we  explain  them? 


[338  ] 


N°-  29 
Modern 

9 


"Cadets  de  Gascogne 


A'TER  witnessing  the  performance  given 
by  the  Comedie  Franchise  in  the  antique 
theatre  at  Orange,  we  determined  —  my 
companion  and  I  —  if  ever  another  opportunity 
of  the  kind  offered,  to  attend,  be  the  material 
difficulties  what  they  might. 

The  theatrical  "stars"  in  their  courses  proved 
favorable  to  the  accomplishment  of  this  vow. 
Before  the  year  ended  it  was  whispered  to  us 
that  the  "Cadets  de  Gascogne"  were  planning 
a  tramp  through  the  Cevennes  Mountains  and 
their  native  Languedoc  —  a  sort  of  lay  pilgrim 
age  to  famous  historic  and  literary  shrines,  a 
voyage  to  be  enlivened  by  much  crowning  of 
busts  and  reciting  of  verses  in  the  open  air,  and 
incidentally,  by  the  eating  of  Gascony  dishes  and 
the  degustation  of  delicate  local  wines;  the  whole 
to  culminate  with  a  representation  in  the  arena 
at  Beziers  of  Dejanire,  Louis  Gallet's  and  Saint- 
Saens's  latest  work,  under  the  personal  supervi 
sion  of  those  two  masters. 

A  tempting  programme,  was  it  not,  in  these 
days  of  cockney  tours  and  "Cook"  couriers?  At 
any  rate,  one  that  we,  with  plenty  of  time  on  our 
hands  and  a  weakness  for  out-of-the-way  corners 

[  239  ] 


THE    W<AYS    OF 


and  untrodden  paths,  found  it  impossible  to  re 
sist. 

Rostand,  in  Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  has  shown  us 
the  "  Cadets"  of  Moliere's  time,  a  fighting,  rhym 
ing,  devil-may-care  band,  who  wore  their  hearts 
on  their  sleeves  and  chips  on  their  stalwart  shoul 
ders;  much  such  a  brotherhood,  in  short,  as  we 
love  to  imagine  that  Shakespeare,  Kit  Marlowe, 
Greene,  and  their  intimates  formed  when  they 
met  at  the  "Ship"  to  celebrate  a  success  or  drink 
a  health  to  the  drama. 

The  men  who  compose  the  present  society 
(which  has  now  for  many  years  borne  a  name  only 
recently  made  famous  by  M.  Rostand's  genius) 
come  delightfully  near  realizing  the  happy  con 
ditions  of  other  days,  and  —  less  the  fighting  — 
form  as  joyous  and  picturesque  a  company  as 
their  historic  elders.  They  are  for  the  most  part 
Southern-born  youths,  whose  interests  and  am 
bitions  centre  around  the  stage,  devotees  at  the 
altar  of  Melpomene,  ardent  lovers  of  letters  and 
kindred  arts,  and  proud  of  the  debt  that  literary 
France  owes  to  Gascony. 

It  is  the  pleasant  custom  of  this  coterie  to 
meet  on  winter  evenings  in  unfrequented  cafes, 
transformed  by  them  for  the  time  into  clubs, 
where  they  recite  new-made  verses,  discuss  books 
and  plays,  enu  nciate  paradoxes  that  make  the  very 
waiters  shudder,  and,  between  their  "  bocks,"  plan 
vast  revolutions  in  the  world  of  literature. 

As  the  pursuit  of  "letters"  is,  if  anything,  less 

[  240  ] 


MODERN   "CADErS    DE    qASCOGNE" 

lucrative  in  France  than  in  other  countries,  the 
question  of  next  day's  dinner  is  also  much  dis 
cussed  among  these  budding  Molieres,  who  are 
often  forced  to  learn  early  in  their  careers,  when 
meals  have  been  meagre,  to  satisfy  themselves  with 
rich  rhymes  and  drink  their  fill  of  flowing  verse. 

From  time  to  time  older  and  more  successful 
members  of  the  corporation  stray  back  into  the 
circle,  laying  aside  their  laurel  crowns  and  Olym 
pian  pose,  in  the  society  of  the  new-comers  to  Bo 
hemia.  These  honorary  members  enjoy  nothing 
more  when  occasion  offers  than  to  escape  from 
the  toils  of  greatness  and  join  the  "Cadets"  in 
their  summer  journeys  to  and  fro  in  France,  trips 
which  are  made  to  combine  the  pleasures  of  an 
outing  with  the  aims  of  a  literary  campaign.  It 
was  an  invitation  to  join  one  of  these  tramps  that 
tempted  my  friend  and  me  away  from  Paris  at 
the  season  when  that  city  is  at  its  best.  Being  un 
able,  on  account  of  other  engagements,  to  start 
with  the  cohort  from  the  capital,  we  made  a  dash 
for  it  and  caught  them  up  at  Carcassonne  during 
the  fetes  that  the  little  Languedoc  city  was  of 
fering  to  its  guests. 

After  having  seen  Aigues  Mortes,  it  was  diffi 
cult  to  believe  that  any  other  place  in  Europe 
could  suggest  more  vividly  the  days  of  military 
feudalism.  St.  Louis's  tiny  city  is,  however,  sur 
passed  by  Carcassonne! 

Thanks  to  twenty  years  of  studious  restoration 
by  Viollet  le  Due,  this  antique  jewel  shines  in  its 

[  241   ] 


THE    WdYS    OF    3M  E 


setting  of  slope  and  plain  as  perfed  to-day  (seen 
from  the  distance)  as  when  the  Crusaders  started 
from  its  crenelated  gates  for  the  conquest  of  the 
Holy  Sepulchre.  The  acropolis  of  Carcassonne 
is  crowned  with  Gothic  battlements,  the  golden 
polygon  of  whose  walls,  rising  from  Roman  foun 
dations  and  layers  of  ruddy  Visigoth  brick  to  the 
stately  marvel  of  its  fifty  towers,  forms  a  whole 
that  few  can  view  unmoved. 

We  found  the  Cadets  lunching  on  the  platform 
of  the  great  western  keep,  while  a  historic  pageant 
organized  in  their  honor  was  winding  through 
the  steep  mediaeval  streets  —  a  cavalcade  of  arch 
ers,  men  at  arms,  and  many-colored  troubadours, 
who,  after  effecting  a  triumphal  entrance  to  the 
town  over  lowered  drawbridges,  mounted  to  un 
furl  their  banner  on  our  tower.  As  the  gaudy  stand 
ard  unfolded  on  the  evening  air,  Mounet-Sully's 
incomparable  voice  breathed  the  very  soul  of  the 
"Burgraves"  across  the  silent  plain  and  down 
through  the  echoing  corridors  below.  While  we 
were  still  under  the  impression  of  the  stirring 
lines,  he  changed  his  key  and  whispered:  — 

Le  soir  tombe.   .  .   .   Uheure  douce 
<j)ui  flloigne  sans  secousse, 
Pose  a  peine  sur  la  mousse 

Ses  pleds. 

Un  jour  inducts  persiste^ 
Et  le  crepuscule  triste 
Ouvre  ses  yeux  d'amtthyste 

Mouillh. 

[   242    ] 


MODERN  "CADETS  DE    QASCOGNE" 

Night  came  on  ere  the  singing  and  reciting 
ended,  a  balmy  Southern  evening,  lit  by  a  thou 
sand  fires  from  tower  and  battlement  and  moat, 
the  old  walls  glowing  red  against  the  violet  sky. 

Picture  this  scene  to  yourself,  reader  mine,  and 
you  will  understand  the  enthusiasm  of  the  art 
ists  and  writers  in  our  clan.  It  needed  but  little 
imagination  then  to  reconstruct  the  past  and 
fancy  one's  self  back  in  the  days  when  the  "Tran- 
cavel"  held  this  city  against  the  world. 

Sleep  that  night  was  filled  with  a  strange  phan 
tasmagoria  of  crenelated  chateaux  and  armored 
knights,  until  the  bright  Provengal  sunlight  and 
the  call  for  a  hurried  departure  dispelled  such  il 
lusions.  By  noon  we  were  far  away  from  Car 
cassonne,  mounting  the  rocky  slopes  of  the  Ce- 
vennes  amid  a  wild  and  noble  landscape;  the 
towering  cliffs  of  the  "Gausses,"  zebraed  by  zig 
zag  paths,  lay  below  us,  disclosing  glimpses  of 
fertile  valley  and  vine-engarlanded  plain. 

One  asks  one's  self  in  wonder  why  these  en 
chanting  regions  are  so  unknown.  En  route  our 
companions  were  like  children  fresh  from  school, 
taking  haphazard  meals  at  the  local  inns  and 
clambering  gayly  into  any  conveyance  that  came 
to  hand.  As  our  way  led  us  through  the  Ce- 
vennes  country,  another  charm  gradually  stole 
over  the  senses. 

"I  imagine  that  Citheron  must  look  like 
this,"  murmured  Catulle  Mendes,  as  we  stood 
looking  down  from  a  sun-baked  eminence,"  with 

[  243  ] 


THE    WtATS    OF 


the  Gulf  of  Corinth  there  where  you  see  that 
gleam  of  water."  As  he  spoke  he  began  declaim 
ing  the  passage  from  Sophocles's  CEdipus  the  King 
descriptive  of  that  classic  scene. 

Two  thousand  feet  below  lay  Ispanhac  in  a 
verdant  valley,  the  River  Tarn  gleaming  amid 
the  cultivated  fields  like  a  cimeter  thrown  on  a 
Turkish  carpet.  Our  descent  was  an  avalanche 
of  laughing,  singing  "Cadets,"  who  rolled  in  the 
fresh-cut  grass  and  chased  each  other  through  the 
ripening  vineyards,  shouting  lines  from  tragedies 
to  groups  of  open-mouthed  farm-hands,  and  in 
vading  the  tiny  inns  on  the  road  with  song  and 
tumult.  As  we  neared  our  goal  its  entire  popu 
lation,  headed  by  the  cure,  came  out  to  meet  us 
and  offer  the  hospitality  of  the  town. 

In  the  market-place,  one  of  our  number,  in 
spired  by  the  antique  solemnity  of  the  surround 
ings,  burst  into  the  noble  lines  of  Hugo's  Devanf 
Dieu,  before  which  the  awestruck  population 
uncovered  and  crossed  themselves,  imagining, 
doubtless,  that  it  was  a  religious  ceremony. 

Another  scene  recurs  vividly  to  my  memory. 
We  were  at  St.  Enimie.  I  had  opened  my  win 
dow  to  breathe  the  night  air  after  the  heat  and 
dust  of  the  day  and  watch  the  moonlight  on  the 
quaint  bridge  at  my  feet.  Suddenly  from  out 
the  shadows  there  rose  (like  sounds  in  a  dream) 
the  exquisite  tone  of  Sylvain's  voice,  alternating 
with  the  baritone  of  d'Esparbes.  They  were 
seated  at  the  water's  edge,  intoxicated  by  the 

[  ^44  ] 


MODERN  "CADETS  DE    QASCOGNE" 

beauty  of  the  scene  and  apparently  oblivious  of 
all  else. 

The  next  day  was  passed  on  the  Tarn,  our  ten 
little  boats  following  each  other  single  file  on  the 
narrow  river,  winding  around  the  feet  of  mighty 
cliffs,  or  wandering  out  into  sunny  pasture  lands 
where  solitary  peasants,  interrupted  in  their  labors, 
listened  in  astonishment  to  the  chorus  thundered 
from  the  passing  boats,  and  waved  us  a  welcome 
as  we  moved  by. 

Space  is  lacking  to  give  more  than  a  sugges 
tion  of  those  days,  passed  in  every  known  con 
veyance  from  the  antique  diligence  to  the  hiss 
ing  trolley,  in  company  with  men  who  seemed 
to  have  left  their  cares  and  their  years  behind 
them  in  Paris. 

Our  last  stop  before  arriving  at  Beziers  was 
at  La  Case,  where  luncheon  was  served  in  the 
great  hall  of  the  chateau.  Armand  Sylvestre  pre 
sided  at  the  repast;  his  verses  alternated  with  the 
singing  of  Emma  Calve,  who  had  come  from  her 
neighboring  chateau  to  greet  her  old  friends  and 
compatriots,  the  "Cadets." 

As  the  meal  terminated,  more  than  one  among 
the  guests,  I  imagine,  felt  his  heart  heavy  with 
the  idea  that  to-morrow  would  end  this  pleasant 
ramble  and  send  him  back  to  the  realities  of  life 
and  the  drudgery  of  daily  bread-winning. 

The  morning  of  the  great  day  dawned  cloud 
less  and  cool.  A  laughing,  many-colored  throng 
early  invaded  the  arena,  the  women's  gay  toi- 


THE    IT^TS    OF 


lets  lending  it  some  resemblance  to  a  parterre 
of  fantastic  flowers.  Before  the  bell  sounded  its 
three  strokes  that  announced  the  representation, 
over  ten  thousand  spedtators  had  taken  their 
places  and  were  studying  the  gigantic  stage  and 
its  four  thousand  yards  of  painted  canvas.  In  the 
foreground  a  cluster  of  Greek  palaces  and  temples 
surround  a  market-place;  higher  up  and  further 
back  the  city  walls,  manned  by  costumed  senti 
nels,  rise  against  mountains  so  happily  painted 
that  their  outlines  blend  with  nature's  own  handi 
work  in  the  distance,  —  a  worthy  setting  for  a 
stately  drama  and  the  valiant  company  of  adtors 
who  have  travelled  from  the  capital  for  this  so 
lemnity. 

Three  hundred  hidden  musicians,  divided  into 
wind  and  chord  orchestras,  accompany  a  chorus 
of  two  hundred  executants,  and  furnish  the  music 
for  a  ballet  of  seventy  dancers. 

As  the  third  stroke  dies  away,  the  Muse,  Ma 
demoiselle  Rabuteau,  enters  and  declaims  the  sal 
utation  addressed  by  Louis  Gallet  to  the  City  of 
Beziers.  At  its  conclusion  the  tragedy  begins. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  describe  or  criticise 
at  length  so  new  an  attempt  at  classic  restoration. 
The  author  follows  the  admirable  fable  of  an 
tiquity  with  a  directness  and  simplicity  worthy 
of  his  Greek  model.  The  story  of  Dejanira  and 
Hercules  is  too  familiar  to  be  repeated  here.  The 
hero's  infidelity  and  the  passion  of  a  neglected 
woman  are  related  through  five  acts  logically  and 


MODERN  "CADETS   DE   gJSCOGNE" 

forcibly,  with  the  noble  music  of  Saint-Saens  as 
a  background. 

We  watch  the  growing  affection  of  the  demi 
god  for  the  gentle  lole.  We  sympathize  with 
jealous,  desperate  Dejanira  when  in  a  last  at 
tempt  to  gain  back  the  love  of  Hercules  she 
persuades  the  unsuspecting  lole  to  offer  him  a 
tunic  steeped  in  Nessus's  blood,  which  Dejanira 
has  been  told  by  Centaur  will  when  warmed  in  the 
sun  restore  the  wearer  to  her  arms. 

At  the  opening  of  the  fifth  ad:  we  witness  the 
nuptial  tetes.  Religious  dances  and  processions 
circle  around  the  pyre  laid  for  a  marriage  sacri 
fice.  Dejanira,  hidden  in  the  throng,  watches  in  an 
agony  of  hope  for  the  miracle  to  be  worked. 

Hercules  accepts  the  fatal  garment  from  the 
hands  of  his  bride  and  calls  upon  the  sun-god  to 
ignite  the  altars.  The  pyre  flames,  the  heat  warms 
the  clinging  tunic,  which  wraps  Hercules  in  its 
folds  of  torture.  Writhing  in  agony,  he  flings 
himselt  upon  the  burning  pyramid,  followed  by 
Dejanira,  who,  in  despair,  sees  too  late  that  she 
has  been  but  a  tool  in  the  hands  of  Nessus. 

No  feeble  prose,  no  characters  of  black  or 
white,  can  do  justice  to  the  closing  scenes  of  this 
performance.  The  roar  of  the  chorus,  the  thun 
der  of  the  actors'  voices,  the  impression  of  reality 
left  on  the  breathless  spectators  by  the  open-air 
reality  of  the  scene,  the  ardent  sun,  the  rustling 
wind,  the  play  of  light  and  shade  across  the  stage, 
the  invocation  of  Hercules  addressed  to  the  real 

[ 


THE    l^^TS    OF 


heavens,  not  to  a  painted  firmament,  combined 
an  effect  that  few  among  that  vast  concourse  will 
forget. 

At  the  farewell  banquet  in  the  arena  after  the 
performance,  Georges  Leygues,  the  captain  of 
the  Cadets,  in  answer  to  a  speech  from  the  Pre 
fect,  replied:  "You  ask  about  our  aims  and  pur 
poses  and  speak  in  admiration  of  the  enthusiasm 
aroused  by  the  passage  of  our  band! 

"  Our  aims  are  to  vivify  the  traditions  and  lan 
guage  of  our  native  land,  and  the  memory  of  a 
glorious  ancestry,  to  foster  the  love  of  our  little 
province  at  the  same  time  as  patriotism  for  the 
greater  country.  We  are  striving  for  a  decentrali 
zation  of  art,  for  the  elevation  of  the  stage;  but 
above  all,  we  preach  a  gospel  of  gayety  and 
healthy  laughter,  the  science  of  remaining  young 
at  heart,  would  teach  pluck  and  good  humor  in 
the  weary  struggle  of  existence,  characteristics  that 
have  marked  our  countrymen  through  history! 
We  have  borrowed  a  motto  from  Lope  de  Vega 
(that  Gascon  of  another  race),  and  inscribed 
'Par  la  langua  et  par  Tepee'1  upon  our  banner, 
that  these  purposes  may  be  read  by  the  world  as 
it  runs." 


Ne-  30 

The  Dinner  and  the  Drama 


CLAUDE    FROLLO,    holding    the    first 
printed  book  he  had  seen  in  one  hand, 
and  pointing  with  the  other  to  the  gigan 
tic  mass  of  Notre  Dame,  dark  against  the  sunset, 
prophesied  "Ceci  tuera  ce!a."  One  might  to-day 
paraphrase  the  sentence  which  Victor  Hugo  put 
into  his  archdeacon's  mouth,  and  pointing  to 
the  elaborately  appointed  dinner-tables  of  our 
generation,  assert  that  the  Dinner  was  killing  the 
Drama. 

New  York  undoubtedly  possesses  at  this  mo 
ment  more  and  better  constructed  theatres,  in 
proportion  to  its  population,  than  any  other  city 
on  the  globe,  and,  with  the  single  exception  of 
Paris,  more  money  is  probably  spent  at  the 
theatre  by  our  people  than  in  any  other  me 
tropolis.  Yet  curiously  enough,  each  decade, 
each  season  widens  the  breach  between  our  dis 
criminating  public  and  the  stage.  The  theatre, 
instead  of  keeping  abreast  with  the  intellectual 
movement  of  our  country,  has  for  the  last  thirty 
years  been  slowly  but  steadily  declining,  until  at 
this  moment  there  is  hardly  a  company  play 
ing  in  legitimate  comedy,  tragedy,  or  the  classic 
masterpieces  of  our  language. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  we  are  a  nation  in  full 
literary  production,  boasting  authors  who  rank 

[  249  ] 


THE    WtATS    OF 


with  the  greatest  of  other  countries,  there  is 
hardly  one  poet  or  prose-writer  to-day,  of  recog 
nized  ability,  who  works  for  the  stage,  nor  can 
we  count  more  than  one  or  two  high-class  come 
dies  or  lyric  dramas  of  American  origin. 

It  is  not  my  intention  here  to  criticise  the  con 
temporary  stage,  although  the  condition  of  the 
drama  in  America  is  so  unique  and  so  different 
from  its  situation  in  other  countries  that  it  might 
well  attract  the  attention  of  inquiring  minds;  but 
rather  to  glance  at  the  social  causes  which  have 
produced  this  curious  state  of  affairs,  and  the 
strained  relations  existing  between  our  elite  (here 
the  word  is  used  in  its  widest  and  most  elevated 
sense)  and  our  stage. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  deterioration 
in  the  class  of  plays  produced  at  our  theatres  has 
been  brought  about  by  changes  in  our  social  con 
ditions.  The  pernicious  "star"  system,  the  diffi 
culty  of  keeping  stock  companies  together,  the 
rarity  of  histrionic  ability  among  Americans  are 
explanations  which  have  at  different  times  been 
offered  to  account  for  these  phenomena.  Fore 
most,  however,  among  the  causes  should  be 
placed  an  exceedingly  simple  and  prosaic  facl: 
which  seems  to  have  escaped  notice.  I  refer  to  the 
displacement  of  the  dinner  hour,  and  the  cere 
mony  now  surrounding  that  meal. 

Forty  years  ago  dinner  was  still  a  simple  affair, 
taken  at  hours  varying  from  three  to  five  o'clock, 
and  uniting  few  but  the  members  of  a  family, 


THE   DINNER  AND    THE   DRAMA 

holidays  and  fetes  being  the  rare  occasions  when 
guests  were  asked.  There  was  probably  not  a 
hotel  in  this  country  at  that  time  where  a  dinner 
was  served  later  than  three  o'clock,  and  Del- 
monico's,  newly  installed  in  Mr.  Moses  Grin- 
nell's  house,  corner  of  Fourteenth  Street  and 
Fifth  Avenue,  was  the  only  establishment  of  its 
kind  in  America,  and  the  one  restaurant  in  New 
York  where  ladies  could  be  taken  to  dine.  In 
those  tranquil  days  when  dinner  parties  were  few 
and  dances  a  rarity,  theatre-going  was  the  one 
ripple  on  the  quiet  stream  of  home  life.  Wai- 
lack's,  at  the  corner  of  Thirteenth  Street  and 
Broadway,  Booth's  in  Twenty-third  Street,  and 
Fechter's  in  Fourteenth  Street  were  the  homes  of 
good  comedy  and  high-class  tragedy. 

Along  about  1870  the  more  aristocratically- 
minded  New  Yorkers  took  to  dining  at  six  or 
six-thirty  o'clock;  since  then  each  decade  has  seen 
the  dinner  recede  further  into  the  night,  until  it 
is  a  common  occurrence  now  to  sit  down  to  that 
repast  at  eight  or  even  nine  o'clock.  Not  only 
has  the  hour  changed,  but  the  meal  itself  has 
undergone  a  radical  transformation,  in  keeping 
with  the  general  increase  of  luxurious  living, 
becoming  a  serious  although  hurried  function. 
In  consequence,  to  go  to  the  theatre  and  be 
present  at  the  rising  of  the  curtain  means,  for 
the  majority  possessing  sufficient  means  to  go 
often  to  the  play  and  culture  enough  to  be  dis 
criminating,  the  disarrangement  of  the  entire  ma- 


THE  ir^rs  OF 


chinery  of  a  household  as  well  as  the  habits  of 
its  inmates. 

In  addition  to  this,  dozens  of  sumptuous  es 
tablishments  have  sprung  up  where  the  pleasure 
of  eating  is  supplemented  by  allurements  to  the 
eye  and  ear.  Fine  orchestras  play  nightly,  the  air 
is  laden  with  the  perfume  of  flowers,  a  scenic  per 
spective  of  palm  garden  and  marble  corridor  flat 
ters  the  senses.  The  temptation,  to  a  man  wearied 
by  a  day  of  business  or  sport,  to  abandon  the  idea 
of  going  to  a  theatre,  and  linger  instead  over  his 
cigar  amid  these  attractive  surroundings,  is  almost 
irresistible. 

If,  however,  tempted  by  some  success,  he  hur 
ries  his  guests  away  from  their  meal,  they  are 
in  no  condition  to  appreciate  a  serious  perfor 
mance.  The  pressure  has  been  too  high  all  day 
for  the  overworked  man  and  his  enervee  wife  to 
desire  any  but  the  lightest  tomfoolery  in  an  en 
tertainment.  People  engaged  in  the  lethargic 
process  of  digestion  are  not  good  critics  of  either 
elevated  poetry  or  delicate  interpretation,  and  in 
consequence  crave  amusement  rather  than  a  men 
tal  stimulant. 

Managers  were  quick  to  perceive  that  their 
productions  were  no  longer  taken  seriously,  and 
that  it  was  a  waste  of  time  and  money  to  offer 
high-class  entertainments  to  audiences  whom  any 
nonsense  would  attract.  When  a  play  like  'The 
Swell  Miss  Fitzwell  will  pack  a  New  York  house 
for  months,  and  then  float  a  company  on  the  high 


THE   DINNER  AND    THE   DRAMA 

tide  of  success  across  the  continent,  it  would  be 
folly  to  produce  anything  better.  New  York  in 
fluences  the  taste  of  the  country ;  it  is  in  New 
York  really  that  the  standard  has  been  lowered. 

In  answer  to  these  remarks,  the  question  will 
doubtless  be  raised,  "  Are  not  the  influences  which 
it  is  asserted  are  killing  the  drama  in  America  at 
work  in  England  or  on  the  Continent,  where  peo 
ple  also  dine  late  and  well?" 

Yes,  and  no !  People  abroad  dine  as  well,  un 
doubtedly;  as  elaborately?  Certainly  not!  With 
the  exception  of  the  English  (and  even  among 
them  dinner-giving  has  never  become  so  univer 
sal  as  with  us),  no  other  people  entertain  for  the 
pleasure  of  hospitality.  On  the  Continent,  a  din 
ner-party  is  always  an  "axe-grinding"  function. 
A  family  who  asked  people  to  dine  without  hav 
ing  a  distinct  end  in  view  for  such  an  outlay  would 
be  looked  upon  by  their  friends  and  relatives  as 
little  short  of  lunatics.  Diplomatists  are  allowed 
certain  sums  by  their  governments  for  entertain 
ing,  and  are  formally  dined  in  return  by  their 
guests.  A  great  French  lady  who  is  asked  to  dine 
out  twice  a  week  considers  herself  fortunate;  a 
New  York  woman  of  equal  position  hardly  dines 
at  home  from  December  i  to  April  1 5,  unless  she 
is  receiving  friends  at  her  own  table. 

Parisian  ladies  rarely  go  to  restaurants.  In 
London  there  are  not  more  than  three  or  four 
places  where  ladies  can  be  taken  to  dine,  while 
in  this  city  there  are  hundreds ;  our  people  have 

[  253  ] 


THE    WtATS    OF    M  E 


caught  the  habit  of  dining  away  from  home,  a 
custom  singularly  in  keeping  with  the  American 
temperament;  for,  although  it  costs  more,  it  is 
less  trouble! 

The  reason  why  foreigners  do  not  entertain 
at  dinner  is  because  they  have  found  other  and 
more  satisfactory  ways  of  spending  their  money. 
This  leaves  people  abroad  with  a  number  of 
evenings  on  their  hands,  unoccupied  hours  that 
are  generally  passed  at  the  theatre.  Only  the  other 
day  a  diplomatist  said  to  me,  "I  am  surprised 
to  see  how  small  a  place  the  theatre  occupies  in 
your  thoughts  and  conversation.  With  us  it  is 
the  pivot  around  which  life  revolves." 

From  one  cause  or  another,  not  only  the 
wealthy,  but  the  thoughtful  and  cultivated  among 
us,  go  less  each  year  to  the  theatre.  The  absti 
nence  of  this  class  is  the  most  significant,  for  well- 
read,  refined,  fastidious  citizens  are  the  pride  of  a 
community,  and  their  influence  for  good  is  far- 
reaching.  Of  this  elite  New  York  has  more  than 
its  share,  but  you  will  not  meet  them  at  the  play, 
unless  Duse  or  Jefferson,  Bernhardt  or  Coquelin 
is  performing.  The  best  only  tempts  such  minds. 
It  was  by  the  encouragement  of  this  class  that 
Booth  was  enabled  to  give  Hamlet  one  hundred 
consecutive  evenings,  and  Fechter  was  induced 
to  linger  here  and  build  a  theatre. 

In  comparison  with  the  verdicts  of  such  peo 
ple,  the  opinions  of  fashionable  sets  are  of  little 
importance.  The  latter  long  ago  gave  up  going 


THE   DINNER  AND    THE   DRAMA 

to  the  play  in  New  York,  except  during  two  short 
seasons,  one  in  the  autumn,  "before  things  get 
going,"  and  again  in  the  spring,  after  the  season 
is  over,  before  they  flit  abroad  or  to  the  country. 
During  these  periods  "smart"  people  generally 
attend  in  bands  called  "theatre  parties,"  an  in 
fliction  unknown  outside  of  this  country,  an  ar 
rangement  above  all  others  calculated  to  bring  the 
stage  into  contempt,  as  such  parties  seldom  ar 
rive  before  the  middle  of  the  second  aft,  take  ten 
minutes  to  get  seated,  and  then  chat  gayly  among 
themselves  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

The  theatre,  having  ceased  to  form  an  integral 
part  of  our  social  life,  has  come  to  be  the  pastime 
of  people  with  nothing  better  to  do, — the  float 
ing  population  of  our  hotels,  the  shop-girl  and 
her  young  man  enjoying  an  evening  out.  The 
plays  produced  by  the  gentlemen  who,  I  am  told, 
control  the  stage  in  this  country  for  the  moment, 
are  adapted  to  the  requirements  of  an  audience 
that,  having  no  particular  standard  from  which 
to  judge  the  literary  merits  of  a  play,  the  training, 
accent,  or  talent  of  the  actors,  are  perfectly  con 
tented  so  long  as  they  are  amused.  To  get  a  laugh, 
at  any  price,  has  become  the  ambition  of  most 
actors  and  the  dream  of  managers. 

A  young  actress  in  a  company  that  played  an 
American  translation  of  Mme.  Sans  Gene  all  over 
this  continent  asked  me  recently  what  I  thought 
of  their  performance.  I  said  I  thought  it  "a  bur 
lesque  of  the  original!"  "If  you  thought  it  a  bur- 

['55  ] 


THE    W^tTS    OF 


lesque  here  in  town,"  she  answered,  "it's  well 
you  did  n't  see  us  on  the  road.  There  was  no 
monkey  trick  we  would  not  play  to  raise  a  laugh." 

If  one  of  my  readers  doubts  the  assertion  that 
the  better  classes  have  ceased  to  attend  our  thea 
tres,  except  on  rare  occasions,  let  him  inquire 
about,  among  the  men  and  women  whose  opin 
ions  he  values  and  respects,  how  many  of  last 
winter's  plays  they  considered  intellectual  treats, 
or  what  piece  tempted  them  to  leave  their  cosy 
dinner-tables  a  second  time.  It  is  surprising  to 
find  the  number  who  will  answer  in  reply  to  a 
question  about  the  merits  of  a  play  en  vogue,  "  I 
have  not  seen  it.  In  fact  I  rarely  go  to  a  theatre 
unless  I  am  in  London  or  on  the  Continent!" 

Little  by  little  we  have  taken  to  turning  in  a 
vicious  and  ever-narrowing  circle.  The  poorer 
the  plays,  the  less  clever  people  will  make  the 
effort  necessary  to  see  them,  and  the  less  such 
elite  attend,  the  poorer  the  plays  will  become. 

That  this  state  of  affairs  is  going  to  last,  how 
ever,  I  do  not  believe.  The  darkest  hour  is  ever 
the  last  before  the  dawn.  As  it  would  be  difficult 
for  the  performances  in  most  of  our  theatres  to 
fall  any  lower  in  the  scale  of  frivolity  or  inanity, 
we  may  hope  for  a  reaction  that  will  be  deep  and 
far-reaching.  At  present  we  are  like  people  dying 
of  starvation  because  they  do  not  know  how  to 
combine  the  flour  and  water  and  yeast  before 
them  into  wholesome  bread.  The  materials  for 
a  brilliant  and  distinctly  national  stage  undoubt- 


THE   DINNER   AND    THE   DRAMA 

edly  exist  in  this  country.  We  have  men  and 
women  who  would  soon  develop  into  great  ac 
tors  if  they  received  any  encouragement  to  de 
vote  themselves  to  a  higher  class  of  work,  and 
certainly  our  great  city  does  not  possess  fewer 
appreciative  people  than  it  did  twenty  years  ago. 

The  great  dinner-giving  mania  will  eat  itself 
out;  and  managers,  feeling  once  more  that  they 
can  count  on  discriminating  audiences,  will  no 
longer  dare  to  give  garbled  versions  of  French 
farces  or  feeble  dramas  compiled  from  English 
novels,  but,  turning  to  our  own  poets  and  wri 
ters,  will  ask  them  to  contribute  towards  the  for 
mation  of  an  American  stage  literature. 

When,  finally,  one  of  our  poets  gives  us  a 
lyric  drama  like  Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  the  attrac 
tions  of  the  dinner-table  will  no  longer  be  strong 
enough  to  keep  clever  people  away  from  the 
theatre,  and  the  following  conversation,  which 
sums  up  the  present  situation,  will  become  im 
possible. 

Banker  (to  Crushed  Tragedian). —  No,  I 
have  n't  seen  you  a6l.  I  have  not  been  inside 
a  theatre  for  two  years! 

C.  T.  —  It 's  five  years  since  I  've  been  inside 
a  bank! 


N°-  31 

The  Modern  Aspasia 

MOST  of  the  historic  cities  of  Europe 
have  a  distinct  local  color,  a  temper 
ament,  if  one  may  be  allowed  the  ex 
pression,  of  their  own.  The  austere  calm  of 
Bruges  or  Ghent,  the  sensuous  beauty  of  Na 
ples,  attrad:  different  natures.  Florence  has  pas 
sionate  devotees,  who  are  insensible  to  the  ar 
tistic  grace  of  Venice  or  the  stately  quiet  of  Ver 
sailles.  In  Cairo  one  experiences  an  exquisite 
bien  etre^  a  mindless,  ambitionless  contentment 
which,  without  being  languor,  soothes  the  nerves 
and  tempts  to  indolent  lotus-eating.  Like  a  great 
hive,  Rome  depends  on  the  memories  that  circle 
around  her,  storing,  like  bees,  the  centuries  with 
their  honey.  Each  of  these  cities  must  therefore 
leave  many  people  unmoved,  who  after  a  pass 
ing  visit,  wander  away,  wondering  at  the  enthu 
siasm  of  the  worshippers. 

Paris  alone  seems  to  possess  the  charm  that 
bewitches  all  conditions,  all  ages,  all  degrees.  To 
hold  the  frivolous-minded  she  paints  her  face 
and  dances,  leading  them  a  round  of  folly,  ex 
haustive  alike  to  health  and  purse.  For  the  stu 
dent  she  assumes  another  mien,  smiling  encour 
agement,  and  urging  him  upward  towards  the 
highest  standards,  while  posing  as  his  model. 
She  takes  the  dreaming  lover  of  the  past  gently 


THE 


by  the  hand,  and  leading  him  into  quiet  streets 
and  squares  where  she  has  stored  away  a  wealth 
of  hidden  treasure,  enslaves  him  as  completely 
as  her  more  sensual  admirers. 

Paris  is  no  less  adored  by  the  vacant-minded, 
to  whom  neither  art  nor  pleasure  nor  study  ap 
peal.  Her  caprices  in  fashion  are  received  by 
the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  universe  as  laws, 
and  obeyed  with  an  unwavering  faith,  a  mute 
obedience  that  few  religions  have  commanded. 
Women  who  yawn  through  Italy  and  the  East 
have,  when  one  meets  them  in  the  French  capi 
tal,  the  intense  manner,  the  air  of  separation  from 
things  mundane,  that  is  observable  in  pilgrims 
approaching  the  shrine  of  their  deity.  Moham 
medans  at  Mecca  must  have  some  such  look. 
In  Paris  women  find  themselves  in  the  presence 
of  those  high  priests  whom  they  have  long  wor 
shipped  from  a  distance.  It  is  useless  to  mention 
other  subjects  to  the  devotee,  for  they  will  not 
fix  her  attention.  Her  thoughts  are  with  her 
heart,  and  that  is  far  away. 

When  visiting  other  cities  one  feels  that  they 
are  like  honest  married  women,  living  quiet 
family  lives,  surrounded  by  their  children.  The 
French  Aspasia,  on  the  contrary,  has  never  been 
true  to  any  vow,  but  has,  at  the  dictate  of  her 
passions,  changed  from  royal  and  imperial  to 
republican  lovers,  and  back  again,  ruled  by  no 
laws  but  her  caprices,  and  discarding  each  favor 
ite  in  turn  with  insults  when  she  has  wearied  of 


THE    /Fe^rS    OF 


him.  Yet  sovereigns  are  her  slaves,  and  leave 
their  lands  to  linger  in  her  presence;  and  rich 
strangers  from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  come 
to  throw  their  fortunes  at  her  feet  and  bask  a 
moment  in  her  smiles. 

Like  her  classic  prototype,  Paris  is  also  the 
companion  of  the  philosophers  and  leads  the  arts 
in  her  train.  Her  palaces  are  the  meeting-places 
of  the  poets,  the  sculptors,  the  dramatists,  and 
the  painters,  who  are  never  weary  of  celebrating 
her  perfections,  nor  of  working  for  her  adorn 
ment  and  amusement. 

Those  who  live  in  the  circle  of  her  influence 
are  caught  up  in  a  whirlwind  of  artistic  produc 
tion,  and  consume  their  brains  and  bodies  in  the 
vain  hope  of  pleasing  their  idol  and  attracting  her 
attention.  To  be  loved  by  Paris  is  an  ordeal  that 
few  natures  can  stand,  for  she  wrings  the  life- 
blood  from  her  devotees  and  then  casts  them 
aside  into  oblivion.  Paris,  said  one  of  her  greatest 
writers,  "  aime  a  briser  ses  idoles!"  As  Ulysses 
and  his  companions  fell,  in  other  days,  a  prey 
to  the  allurements  of  Circe,  so  our  powerful 
young  nation  has  fallen  more  than  any  other  un 
der  the  influence  of  the  French  siren,  and  brings 
her  a  yearly  tribute  of  gold  which  she  receives 
with  avidity,  although  in  her  heart  there  is  little 
fondness  for  the  giver. 

Americans  who  were  in  Paris  two  years  ago 
had  an  excellent  opportunity  of  judging  the  sin 
cerity  of  Parisian  affection,  and  of  sounding  the 
[  260  ] 


THE     MODERW     <ASPASIA 


depth  and  unselfishness  of  the  love  that  this  fic 
kle  city  gives  us  in  return  for  our  homage.  Not 
for  one  moment  did  she  hesitate,  but  threw  the 
whole  weight  of  her  influence  and  wit  into  the 
scale  for  Spain.  If  there  is  not  at  this  moment  a 
European  alliance  against  America  it  is  not  from 
any  lack  of  effort  on  her  part  towards  that  end. 

The  stand  taken  by  la  mile  lumiere  in  that 
crisis  caused  many  naive  Americans,  who  be 
lieved  that  their  weakness  for  the  French  capital 
was  returned,  a  painful  surprise.  They  imagined 
in  the  simplicity  of  their  innocent  hearts  that  she 
loved  them  for  themselves,  and  have  awakened, 
like  other  rich  lovers,  to  the  humiliating  knowl 
edge  that  a  penniless  neighbor  was  receiving 
the  caresses  that  Croesus  paid  for.  Not  only  did 
the  entire  Parisian  press  teem  at  that  moment 
with  covert  insults  directed  towards  us,  but  in 
society,  at  the  clubs  and  tables  of  the  aristocracy, 
it  was  impossible  for  an  American  to  appear  with 
self-respect,  so  persistently  were  our  actions  and 
our  reasons  for  undertaking  that  war  misunder 
stood  and  misrepresented.  In  the  conversation 
of  the  salons  and  in  the  daily  papers  it  was  as 
sumed  that  the  Spanish  were  a  race  of  noble  pa 
triots,  fighting  in  the  defence  of  a  loved  and  loyal 
colony,  while  we  were  a  horde  of  blatant  cowards, 
who  had  long  fermented  a  revolution  in  Cuba 
in  order  to  appropriate  that  coveted  island. 

When  the  Spanish  authorities  allowed  an 
American  ship  (surprised  in  one  of  her  ports  by 


THE    WtATS    OF    3d  E 


the  declaration  of  war)  to  depart  unharmed,  the 
fad:  was  magnified  into  an  a6t  of  almost  ideal 
generosity;  on  the  other  hand,  when  we  decided 
not  to  permit  privateering,  that  announcement 
was  received  with  derisive  laughter  as  a  preten 
tious  pose  to  cover  hidden  interests.  There  is 
reason  to  believe,  however,  that  this  feeling  in 
favor  of  Spain  goes  little  further  than  the  press 
and  the  aristocratic  circles  so  dear  to  the  Ameri 
can  "climber";  the  real  heart  of  the  French  na 
tion  is  as  true  to  us  as  when  a  century  ago  she 
spent  blood  and  treasure  in  our  cause.  It  is  the 
inconstant  capital  alone  that,  false  to  her  role  of 
liberator,  has  sided  with  the  tyrant. 

Yet  when  I  wander  through  her  shady  parks 
or  lean  over  her  monumental  quays,  drinking 
in  the  beauty  of  the  first  spring  days,  intoxicated 
by  the  perfume  of  the  flowers  that  the  night 
showers  have  kissed  into  bloom;  or  linger  of  an 
evening  over  my  coffee,  with  the  brilliant  life  of 
the  boulevards  passing  like  a  carnival  procession 
before  my  eyes;  when  I  sit  in  her  theatres,  en 
thralled  by  the  genius  of  her  aftors  and  play 
wrights,  or  stand  bewildered  before  the  ten  thou 
sand  paintings  and  statues  of  the  Salon,  I  feel 
inclined,  like  a  betrayed  lover,  to  pardon  my 
faithless  mistress:  she  is  too  lovely  to  remain 
long  angry  with  her.  You  realize  she  is  false 
and  will  betray  you  again,  laughing  at  you,  in 
sulting  your  weakness;  but  when  she  smiles  all 
faults  are  forgotten;  the  ardor  of  her  kisses  blinds 
[  262  ] 


THE     MODERN      JtSPASIA 


you  to  her  inconstancy;  she  pours  out  a  draught 
that  no  other  hands  can  brew,  and  clasps  you  in 
arms  so  fair  that  life  outside  those  fragile  barriers 
seems  stale  and  unprofitable. 


[  '63  ] 


AT"0-  32 

A  Nation  in  a  Hurry 

IN  early  days  of  steam  navigation  on  the 
Mississippi,  the  river  captains,  it  is  said,  had 
the  playful  habit,  when  pressed  for  time  or 
enjoying  a  "spurt"  with  a  rival,  of  running  their 
engines  with  a  darky  seated  on  the  safety-valve. 

One's  first  home  impression  after  a  season  of 
lazy  Continental  travelling  and  visiting  in  som 
nolent  English  country  houses,  is  that  an  em 
blematical  Ethiopian  should  be  quartered  on  our 
national  arms. 

Zola  tells  us  in  Nouvelle  Campagne  that  his 
vivid  impressions  are  all  received  during  the  first 
twenty-four  hours  in  a  new  surrounding, — the 
mind,  like  a  photographic  film,  quickly  losing 
its  sensibility. 

This  fleeting  receptiveness  makes  returning 
Americans  painfully  conscious  of  nerves  in  the 
home  atmosphere,  and  the  headlong  pace  at 
which  our  compatriots  are  living. 

The  habit  of  laying  such  faults  to  the  climate 
is  but  a  poor  excuse.  Our  grandparents  and  their 
parents  lived  peaceful  lives  beneath  these  same 
skies,  undisturbed  by  the  morbid  influences  that 
are  supposed  to  key  us  to  such  a  painful  concert 
pitch. 

There  was  an  Indian  summer  languor  in  the 
air  as  we  steamed  up  the  bay  last  October,  that 


IN    <A    HURRY 


apparently  invited  repose;  yet  no  sooner  had  we 
set  foot  on  our  native  dock,  and  taken  one  good 
whiff  of  home  air,  than  all  our  acquired  calm  dis 
appeared.  People  who  ten  days  before  would 
have  sat  (at  a  journey's  end)  contentedly  in  a 
waiting-room,  while  their  luggage  was  being 
sorted  by  leisurely  officials,  now  hustle  nervously 
about,  nagging  the  custom-house  officers  and 
egging  on  the  porters,  as  though  the  saving  of 
the  next  half  hour  were  the  prime  object  of  ex 
istence. 

Considering  how  extravagant  we  Americans 
are  in  other  ways  it  seems  curious  that  we  should 
be  so  economical  of  time  !  It  was  useless  to  strug 
gle  against  the  current,  however,  or  to  attempt 
to  hold  one's  self  back.  Before  ten  minutes  on 
shore  had  passed,  the  old,  familiar,  unpleasant 
sensation  of  being  in  a  hurry  took  possession  of 
me!  It  was  irresistible  and  all-pervading;  from 
the  movements  of  the  crowds  in  the  streets  to  the 
whistle  of  the  harbor  tugs,  everything  breathed 
of  haste.  The  very  dogs  had  apparently  no  time 
to  loiter,  but  scurried  about  as  though  late  for 
their  engagements. 

The  transit  from  dock  to  hotel  was  like  a  visit 
to  a  new  circle  in  the  Inferno  ^  where  trains  rumble 
eternally  overhead,  and  cable  cars  glide  and  block 
around  a  pale-faced  throng  of  the  damned,  who 
are  forced,  in  expiation  of  their  sins,  to  hasten 
forever  toward  an  unreachable  goal. 

A  curious  curse  has  fallen  upon  our  people; 


THE  ir^rs  OF 


an  "influence"  is  at  work  which  forces  us  to  at 
tempt  in  an  hour  just  twice  as  much  as  can  be 
accomplished  in  sixty  minutes.  "Do  as  well  as 
you  can,"  whispers  the  "influence,"  "but  do  it 
quickly!"  That  motto  might  be  engraved  upon 
the  fronts  of  our  homes  and  business  buildings. 

It  is  on  account  of  this  new  standard  that 
rapidity  in  a  transaction  on  the  Street  is  appre 
ciated  more  than  correctness  of  detail.  A  broker 
to-day  will  take  more  credit  for  having  received 
and  executed  an  order  for  Chicago  and  returned 
an  answer  within  six  minutes,  than  for  any  amount 
of  careful  work.  The  order  may  have  been  ill 
executed  and  the  details  mixed,  but  there  will 
have  been  celerity  of  execution  to  boast  of. 

The  young  man  who  expects  to  succeed  in 
business  to-day  must  be  a  "  hustler,"  have  a  snap 
shot  style  in  conversation,  patronize  rapid  tran 
sit  vehicles,  understand  shorthand,  and  eat  at 
"breathless  breakfasts." 

Being  taken  recently  to  one  of  these  estab 
lishments  for  "quick  lunch,"  as  I  believe  the  cor 
rect  phrase  is,  to  eat  buckwheat  cakes  (and  very 
good  they  were),  I  had  an  opportunity  of  studying 
the  ways  of  the  modern  time-saving  young  man. 

It  is  his  habit  upon  entering  to  dash  for  the 
bill-of-fare,  and  give  an  order  (if  he  is  adroit 
enough  to  catch  one  of  the  maids  on  the  fly) 
before  removing  either  coat  or  hat.  At  least  fif 
teen  seconds  may  be  economized  in  this  way. 
Once  seated,  the  luncher  falls  to  on  anything  at 
[  266  ] 


IN    ^    HURRT 


hand;  bread,  cold  slaw,  crackers,  or  catsup.  When 
the  dish  ordered  arrives,  he  gets  his  fork  into  it 
as  it  appears  over  his  shoulder,  and  has  cleaned 
the  plate  before  the  sauce  makes  its  appearance, 
so  that  is  eaten  by  itself  or  with  bread. 

Cups  of  coffee  or  tea  go  down  in  two  swal 
lows.  Little  piles  of  cakes  are  cut  in  quarters  and 
disappear  in  four  mouthfuls,  much  after  the  fash 
ion  of  children  down  the  ogre's  throat  in  the 
mechanical  toy,  mastication  being  either  a  lost 
art  or  considered  a  foolish  waste  of  energy. 

A  really  accomplished  luncher  can  assimilate 
his  last  quarter  of  cakes,  wiggle  into  his  coat,  and 
pay  his  check  at  the  desk  at  the  same  moment. 
The  next,  he  is  down  the  block  in  pursuit  of  a 
receding  trolley. 

To  any  one  fresh  from  the  Continent,  where 
the  entire  machinery  of  trade  comes  to  a  stand 
still  from  eleven  to  one  o'clock,  that  dejeuner  may 
be  taken  in  somnolent  tranquillity,  the  nervous 
tension  pervading  a  restaurant  here  is  prodigious, 
and  what  is  worse  —  catching!  During  recent 
visits  to  the  business  centres  of  our  city,  I  find 
that  the  idea  of  eating  is  repugnant.  It  seems  to 
be  wrong  to  waste  time  on  anything  so  unpro 
ductive.  Last  week  a  friend  offered  me  a  "lunch 
eon  tablet"  from  a  box  on  his  desk.  "It's  as 
good  as  a  meal,"  he  said,  "and  so  much  more 
expeditious!" 

The  proprietor  of  one  down-town  restaurant 
has  the  stock  quotations  exhibited  on  a  black- 

[  267  ] 


THE  ir^rs  OF  ME 


board  at  the  end  of  his  room;  in  this  way  his 
patrons  can  keep  in  touch  with  the  "Street"  as 
they  hurriedly  stoke  up. 

A  parlor  car,  toward  a  journey's  end,  is  another 
excellent  place  to  observe  our  native  ways.  Com 
ing  from  Washington  the  other  day  my  fellow- 
passengers  began  to  show  signs  of  restlessness 
near  Newark.  Books  and  papers  were  thrown 
aside;  a  general  "uprising,  unveiling"  followed, 
accompanied  by  our  objectionable  custom  of 
having  our  clothes  brushed  in  each  other's  faces. 
By  the  time  Jersey  City  appeared  on  the  hori 
zon,  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  that  car 
was  jammed,  baggage  in  hand,  into  the  stuffy 
little  passage  which  precedes  the  entrance,  sway 
ing  and  staggering  about  while  the  train  backed 
and  delayed. 

The  explanation  of  this  is  quite  simple.  The 
"  influence  "  was  at  work,  preventing  those  people 
from  acting  like  other  civilized  mortals,  and  re 
maining  seated  until  their  train  had  come  to  a 
standstill. 

Being  fresh  from  the  "other  side,"  and  retain 
ing  some  of  my  acquired  calm,  I  sat  in  my  chair! 
The  surprise  on  the  faces  of  the  other  passengers 
warned  me,  however,  that  it  would  not  be  safe 
to  carry  this  pose  too  far.  The  porter,  puzzled  by 
the  unaccustomed  sight,  touched  me  kindly  on 
the  shoulder,  and  asked  if  I  "felt  sick"!  So  now, 
to  avoid  all  affectation  of  superiority,  I  struggled 
into  my  great-coat,  regardless  of  eighty  degrees 


IN    ^    HURRT 


temperature  in  the  car,  and  meekly  joined  the 
standing  army  of  martyrs,  to  hurry,  scampering 
with  them  from  the  still-moving  car  to  the  boat, 
and  on  to  the  trolley  before  the  craft  had  been 
moored  to  its  landing  pier. 

In  Paris,  on  taking  an  omnibus,  you  are  given 
a  number  and  the  right  to  the  first  vacant  seat. 
When  the  places  in  a  "bus"  are  all  occupied  it 
receives  no  further  occupants.  Imagine  a  traction 
line  attempting  such  a  reform  here  !  There  would 
be  a  riot,  and  the  conductors  hanged  to  the  near 
est  trolley-poles  in  an  hour! 

To  prevent  a  citizen  from  crowding  into  an  over 
full  vehicle,  and  stamping  on  its  occupants  in  the 
process,  would  be  to  infringe  one  of  his  dearest 
privileges,  not  to  mention  his  chance  of  riding  free. 

A  small  boy  of  my  acquaintance  tells  me  he 
rarely  finds  it  necessary  to  pay  in  a  New  York 
car.  The  conductors  are  too  hurried  and  too 
preoccupied  pocketing  their  share  of  the  receipts 
to  keep  count.  "When  he  passes,  I  just  look 
blank!"  remarked  the  ingenious  youth. 

Of  all  the  individuals,  however,  in  the  com 
munity,  our  idle  class  suffer  the  most  acutely 
from  lack  of  time,  though,  like  Charles  Lamb's 
gentleman,  they  have  all  there  is. 

From  the  moment  a  man  of  leisure,  or  his 
wife,  wakens  in  the  morning  until  they  drop 
into  a  fitful  slumber  at  night,  their  day  is  an 
agitated  chase.  No  matter  where  or  when  you 
meet  them,  they  are  always  on  the  wing. 


THE    WtATS    OF    3VL  E 


"Am  I  late  again?"  gasped  a  thin  little  wo 
man  to  me  the  other  evening,  as  she  hurried  into 
the  drawing-room,  where  she  had  kept  her  guests 
and  dinner  waiting.  "  I  Ve  been  so  driven  all  day, 
I  'm  a  wreck!"  A  glance  at  her  hatchet-faced 
husband  revealed  the  fa6t  that  he,  too,  was  chas 
ing  after  a  stray  half-hour  lost  somewhere  in  his 
youth.  His  color  and  most  of  his  hair  had  gone 
in  its  pursuit,  while  his  hands  had  acquired  a 
twitch,  as  though  urging  on  a  tired  steed. 

Go  and  ask  that  lady  for  a  cup  of  tea  at  twi 
light;  ten  to  one  she  will  receive  you  with  her  hat 
on,  explaining  that  she  has  not  had  time  to  take 
it  off  since  breakfast.  If  she  writes  to  you,  her 
notes  are  signed,  "In  great  haste,"  or  "  In  a  tear 
ing  hurry."  She  is  out  of  her  house  by  half-past 
eight  on  most  mornings,  yet  when  calling  she  sits 
on  the  edge  of  her  chair,  and  assures  you  that  she 
has  not  a  moment  to  stay,  "has  only  run  in,"  etc. 

Just  what  drives  her  so  hard  is  a  mystery,  for 
beyond  a  vague  charity  meeting  or  two  and  some 
calls,  she  accomplishes  little.  Although  wealthy 
and  childless,  with  no  cares  and  few  worries,  she 
succumbs  to  nervous  prostration  every  two  or 
three  years,  "from  overwork." 

Listen  to  a  compatriot's  account  of  his  Euro 
pean  trip!  He  will  certainly  tell  you  how  short 
the  ocean  crossing  was,  giving  hours  and  min 
utes  with  zest,  as  though  he  had  got  ahead  of 
Father  Time  in  a  transaction.  Then  follows  a 
list  of  the  many  countries  seen  during  his  tour. 


IN    <A    HURRT 


I  know  a  lady  lying  ill  to-day  because  she 
would  hurry  herself  and  her  children,  in  six 
weeks  last  summer,  through  a  Continental  tour 
that  should  have  occupied  three  months.  She  had 
no  particular  reason  for  hurrying;  indeed,  she  got 
ahead  of  her  schedule,  and  had  to  wait  in  Paris 
for  the  steamer;  a  detail,  however,  that  in  no  way 
diminished  madame's  pleasure  in  having  done  so 
much  during  her  holiday.  This  same  lady  deplores 
lack  of  leisure  hours,  yet  if  she  finds  by  her  engage 
ment  book  that  there  is  a  free  week  ahead,  she  will 
run  to  Washington  or  Lakewood,  "  for  a  change," 
or  organize  a  party  to  Florida. 

To  realize  how  our  upper  ten  scramble  through 
existence,  one  must  also  contrast  their  fidgety 
way  of  feeding  with  the  bovine  calm  in  which  a 
German  absorbs  his  nourishment  and  the  hours 
Italians  can  pass  over  their  meals;  an  American 
dinner  party  affords  us  the  opportunity. 

There  is  an  impression  that  the  fashion  for 
quickly  served  dinners  came  to  us  from  England. 
If  this  is  true  (which  I  doubt;  it  fits  too  nicely 
with  our  temperament  to  have  been  imported), 
we  owe  H.  R.  H.  a  debt  of  gratitude,  for  nothing 
is  so  tiresome  as  too  many  courses  needlessly 
prolonged. 

Like  all  converts,  however,  we  are  too  zeal 
ous.  From  oysters  to  fruit,  dinners  now  are  a 
breathless  steeplechase,  during  which  we  take 
our  viand  hedges  and  champagne  ditches  at  a 
dead  run,  with  conversation  pushed  at  much  the 


THE    WtATS    OF 


same  speed.  To  be  silent  would  be  to  imply  that 
one  was  not  having  a  good  time,  so  we  rattle 
and  gobble  on  toward  the  finger-bowl  winning- 
post,  only  to  find  that  rest  is  not  there! 

As  the  hostess  pilots  the  ladies  away  to  the 
drawing-room,  she  whispers  to  her  spouse,"  You 
won't  smoke  long,  will  you  ?  "  So  we  are  mulcted 
in  the  enjoyment  of  even  that  last  resource  of 
weary  humanity,  the  cigar,  and  are  hustled  away 
from  that  and  our  coffee,  only  to  find  that  our 
appearance  is  a  signal  for  a  general  move. 

One  of  the  older  ladies  rises;  the  next  moment 
the  whole  circle,  like  a  flock  of  frightened  birds, 
are  up  and  off,  crowding  each  other  in  the  hall 
way,  calling  for  their  carriages,  and  confusing  the 
unfortunate  servants,  who  are  trying  to  help 
them  into  their  cloaks  and  overshoes. 

Bearing  in  mind  that  the  guests  come  as  late 
as  they  dare,  without  being  absolutely  uncivil, 
that  dinners  are  served  as  rapidly  as  is  physically 
possible,  and  that  the  circle  breaks  up  as  soon 
as  the  meal  ends,  one  asks  one's  self  in  wonder 
why,  if  a  dinner  party  is  such  a  bore  that  it  has 
to  be  scrambled  through,  coufe  que  coute^  we  con 
tinue  to  dine  out? 

It  is  within  the  bounds  of  possibility  that  peo 
ple  may  have  reasons  for  hurrying  through  their 
days,  and  that  dining  out  a  la  longue  becomes  a 
weariness. 

The  one  place,  however,  where  you  might  ex 
pect  to  find  people  reposeful  and  calm  is  at  the 


IN    <A    HURRY 


theatre.  The  labor  of  the  day  is  then  over;  they 
have  assembled  for  an  hour  or  two  of  relaxation 
and  amusement.  Yet  it  is  at  the  play  that  our 
restlessness  is  most  apparent.  Watch  an  audi 
ence  (which,  be  it  remarked  in  passing,  has  ar 
rived  late)  during  the  last  ten  minutes  of  a  per 
formance.  No  sooner  do  they  discover  that  the 
end  is  drawing  near  than  people  begin  to  strug 
gle  into  their  wraps.  By  the  time  the  players  have 
lined  up  before  the  footlights  the  house  is  full 
of  disappearing  backs. 

Past,  indeed,  are  the  unruffled  days  when  a 
heroine  was  expecled  (after  the  action  of  a  play 
had  ended)  to  deliver  the  closing  envoi  dear  to 
the  writers  of  Queen  Anne's  day.  Thackeray 
writes:  — 

The  play  is  done  !  The  curtain  drops, 
Slow  falling  to  the  prompter's  bell! 

A  moment  yet  the  attor  stops, 

And  looks  around,  to  say  farewell! 

A  comedian  who  attempted  any  such  abuse 
of  the  situation  to-day  would  find  himself  ad 
dressing  empty  benches.  Before  he  had  finished 
the  first  line  of  his  epilogue,  most  of  his  public 
would  be  housed  in  the  rapid  transit  cars.  No 
talent,  no  novelty  holds  our  audiences  to  the  end 
of  a  performance. 

On  the  opening  night  of  the  opera  season  this 
winter,  one  third  of  the  "boxes"  and  orchestra 
stalls  were  vacant  before  Romeo  (who,  being  a 
foreigner,  was  taking  his  time)  had  expired. 


THE    WtATS    OF    ZM  E 


One  overworked  matron  of  my  acquaintance 
has  perfected  an  ingenious  and  time-saving  com 
bination.  By  signalling  from  a  window  near  her 
opera  box  to  a  footman  below,  she  is  able  to  get 
her  carriage  at  least  two  minutes  sooner  than  her 
neighbors. 

During  the  last  act  of  an  opera  like  Tann- 
hauser  or  Fausf,  in  which  the  inconsiderate  com 
poser  has  placed  a  musical  gem  at  the  end,  this 
lady  is  worth  watching.  After  getting  into  her 
wraps  and  overshoes  she  stands,  hand  on  the  door, 
at  the  back  of  her  box,  listening  to  the  singers; 
at  a  certain  moment  she  hurries  to  the  window, 
makes  her  signal,  scurries  back,  hears  Calve  pour 
her  soul  out  in  Anges  purs,  anges  radieux,  yet 
manages  to  get  down  the  stairs  and  into  her  car 
nage  before  the  curtain  has  fallen. 

We  deplore  the  prevailing  habit  of  "slouch"; 
yet  if  you  think  of  it,  this  universal  hurry  is  the 
cause  of  it.  Our  cities  are  left  unsightly,  because 
we  cannot  spare  time  to  beautify  them.  Nervous 
diseases  are  distressingly  prevalent  ;  still  we  hurry  ! 
hurry  !  !  hurry  !  !  !  until,  as  a  diplomatist  recently 
remarked  to  me,  the  whole  nation  seemed  to  him 
to  be  but  five  minutes  ahead  of  an  apoplectic  fit. 

The  curious  part  of  the  matter  is  that  after 
several  weeks  at  home,  much  that  was  strange 
at  first  becomes  quite  natural  to  the  traveller,  who 
finds  himself  thinking  with  pity  of  benighted  for 
eigners  and  their  humdrum  ways,  and  would  re 
sent  any  attempts  at  reform. 


e/f    NJTIOW^    IN    *A    HURRY 

What,  for  instance,  would  replace  for  enter 
prising  souls  the  joy  of  taking  their  matutinal 
car  at  a  flying  leap,  or  the  rapture  of  being  first 
out  of  a  theatre?  What  does  part  of  a  last  act 
or  the  "star  song"  matter  in  comparison  with 
five  minutes  of  valuable  time  to  the  good  ?  Like 
the  river  captains,  we  propose  to  run  under  full 
head  of  steam  and  get  there,  or  b explode ! 


No.    33 

The  Spirit  of  History 

BUILDINGS  become  tombs  when  the 
race  that  constructed  them  has  disap 
peared.  Libraries  and  manuscripts  are 
catacombs  where  most  of  us  might  wander  in 
the  dark  forever,  finding  no  issue.  To  know  dead 
generations  and  their  environments  through 
these  channels,  to  feel  a  love  so  strong  that  it 
calls  the  past  forth  from  its  winding-sheet,  and 
gives  it  life  again,  as  Christ  did  Lazarus,  is  the 
privilege  only  of  great  historians. 

France  is  honoring  the  memory  of  such  a  man 
at  this  moment;  one  who  for  forty  years  sought 
the  vital  spark  of  his  country's  existence,  striv 
ing  to  resuscitate  what  he  called  "the  great  soul 
of  history,"  as  it  developed  through  successive 
acts  of  the  vast  drama.  This  employment  of  his 
genius  is  Michelet's  title  to  fame. 

In  a  sombre  structure,  the  tall  windows  of 
which  look  across  the  Luxembourg  trees  to  the 
Pantheon,  where  her  husband's  bust  has  recently 
been  placed,  a  widow  preserves  with  religious 
care  the  souvenirs  of  this  great  historian.  Noth 
ing  that  can  recall  either  his  life  or  his  labor  is 
changed. 

Madame  Michelet's  life  is  in  strange  contrast 
with  the  ways  of  the  modern  spouse  who,  under 
pretext  of  grief,  discards  and  displaces  every  re- 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    HISTORT 

minder  of  the  dead.  In  our  day,  when  the  great 
art  is  to  forget,  an  existence  consecrated  to  a 
memory  is  so  rare  that  the  world  might  be  the 
better  for  knowing  that  a  woman  lives  who, 
young  and  beautiful,  was  happy  in  the  society 
of  an  old  man,  whose  genius  she  appreciated  and 
cherished,  who  loves  him  dead  as  she  loved  him 
living.  By  her  care  the  apartment  remains  as  it 
stood  when  he  left  it,  to  die  at  Hyeres, — the 
furniture,  the  paintings,  the  writing-table.  No 
stranger  has  sat  in  his  chair,  no  acquaintance  has 
drunk  from  his  cup.  This  woman,  who  was  a 
perfect  wife  and  now  fills  one's  ideal  of  what  a 
widow's  life  should  be,  has  constituted  herself 
the  vigilant  guardian  of  her  husband's  memory. 
She  loves  to  talk  of  the  illustrious  dead,  and  tell 
how  he  was  fond  of  saying  that  Virgil  and  Vico 
were  his  parents.  Any  one  who  reads  the  Geor- 
gics  or  'The  Bird  will  see  the  truth  of  this,  for 
he  loved  all  created  things,  his  ardent  spiritism 
perceiving  that  the  essence  which  moved  the 
ocean's  tides  was  the  same  that  sang  in  the  robin 
at  the  window  during  his  last  illness,  which  he 
called  his  "little  captive  soul." 

The  author  of  La  Bible  de  rHumanite  had 
to  a  supreme  degree  the  love  of  country,  and 
possessed  the  power  of  reincarnating  with  each 
succeeding  cycle  of  its  history.  So  luminous  was 
his  mind,  so  profound  and  far-reaching  his  sym 
pathy,  that  he  understood  the  obscure  workings 
of  the  mediaeval  mind  as  clearly  as  he  appreciated 


THE    ir^TS    OF 


Mirabeau's  transcendent  genius.  He  believed 
that  humanity,  like  Prometheus,  was  self-made; 
that  nations  modelled  their  own  destiny  during 
the  actions  and  reactions  of  history,  as  each  one 
of  us  acquires  a  personality  through  the  struggles 
and  temptations  of  existence,  by  the  evolving 
power  every  soul  carries  within  itself. 

Michelet  taught  that  each  nation  was  the  hero 
of  its  own  drama;  that  great  men  have  not  been 
different  from  the  rest  of  their  race,  —  on  the  con 
trary,  being  the  condensation  of  an  epoch,  that, 
no  matter  what  the  apparent  eccentricities  of  a 
leader  may  have  been,  he  was  the  expression  of 
a  people's  spirit.  This  discovery  that  a  race  is 
transformed  by  its  action  upon  itself  and  upon 
the  elements  it  absorbs  from  without,  wipes  away 
at  a  stroke  the  popular  belief  in  "predestined 
races"  or  providential  "great  men"  appearing 
at  crucial  moments  and  riding  victorious  across 
the  world. 

An  historian,  if  what  he  writes  is  to  have  any 
value,  must  know  the  people,  the  one  great  his 
torical  factor.  Radicalism  in  history  is  the  begin 
ning  of  truth.  Guided  by  this  light  of  his  own, 
Michelet  discovered  a  fresh  factor  heretofore  un 
noticed,  that  vast  fermentation  which  in  France 
transforms  all  foreign  elements  into  an  integral 
part  of  the  country's  being.  After  studying  his 
own  land  through  the  thirteen  centuries  of  her 
growth,  from  the  chart  of  Childebert  to  the  will 
of  Louis  XVI.,  Michelet  declared  that  while 


THE     SPIRIT    OF    HISTORT 

England  is  a  composite  empire  and  Germany  a 
region,  France  is  a  personality.  In  consequence 
he  regarded  the  history  of  his  country  as  a  long 
dramatic  poem.  Here  we  reach  the  inner  thought 
of  the  historian,  the  secret  impulse  that  guided 
his  majestic  pen. 

The  veritable  hero  of  his  splendid  Iliad  is  at 
first  ignorant  and  obscure,  seeking  passionately 
like  CEdipus  to  know  himself.  The  interest  of 
the  piece  is  absorbing.  We  can  follow  the  gradual 
development  of  his  nature  as  it  becomes  more 
attractive  and  sympathetic  with  each  advancing 
age,  until,  through  the  hundred  acts  of  the  trag 
edy,  he  achieves  a  soul.  For  Michelet  to  write 
the  history  of  his  country  was  to  describe  the 
long  evolution  of  a  hero.  He  was  fond  of  telling 
his  friends  that  during  the  Revolution  of  July, 
while  he  was  making  his  translation  of  Vico,  this 
great  fact  was  revealed  to  him  in  the  blazing  vis 
ion  of  a  people  in  revolt.  At  that  moment  the 
young  and  unknown  author  resolved  to  devote 
his  life,  his  talents,  his  gift  of  clairvoyance,  the 
magic  of  his  inimitable  style  and  creative  genius, 
to  fixing  on  paper  the  features  seen  in  his  vi 
sion. 

Conceived  and  executed  in  this  spirit,  his 
history  could  be  but  a  stupendous  epic,  and 
proves  once  again  the  truth  of  Aristotle's  asser 
tion  that  there  is  often  greater  truth  in  poetry 
than  in  prose. 

Seeking  in  the  remote  past  for  the  origin  of 

[  279  ] 


THE    W<ArS    OF 


his  hero,  Michelet  pauses  first  before  the  Cathe 
dral.  The  poem  begins  like  some  mediaeval  tale. 
The  first  years  of  his  youthful  country  are  de 
voted  to  a  mystic  religion.  Under  his  ardent 
hands  vast  naves  rise  and  belfries  touch  the 
clouds.  It  is  but  a  sad  and  cramped  develop 
ment,  however;  statutes  restrain  his  young  ardor 
and  chill  his  blood.  It  is  not  until  the  boy  is  be 
hind  the  plough  in  the  fields  and  sunlight  that 
his  real  life  begins  —  a  poor,  brutish  existence, 
if  you  will,  but  still  life.  The  "Jacques,"  half 
man  and  half  beast,  of  the  Middle  Ages  is  the 
result  of  a  thousand  years  of  suffering. 

A  woman's  voice  calls  this  brute  to  arms.  An 
enemy  is  overrunning  the  land.  Joan  the  virgin 
—  "my  Joan,"  Michelet  calls  her  —  whose  heart 
bleeds  when  blood  is  shed,  frees  her  country.  A 
shadow,  however,  soon  obscures  this  gracious 
vision  from  Jacques's  eyes.  The  vast  monarchi 
cal  incubus  rises  between  the  people  and  their 
ideal.  Our  historian  turns  in  disgust  from  the  later 
French  kings.  He  has  neither  time  nor  heart  to 
write  their  history,  so  passes  quickly  from  Louis 
XI.  to  the  great  climax  of  his  drama  —  the  Rev 
olution.  There  we  find  his  hero,  emerging  at 
last  from  tyranny  and  oppression.  Freedom  and 
happiness  are  before  him.  Alas  !  his  eyes,  accus 
tomed  to  the  dim  light  of  dungeons,  are  dazzled 
by  the  sun  of  liberty;  he  strikes  friend  and  foe 
alike. 

In  the  solitary  galleries  of  the  "Archives" 


THE     SPIRIT    OF    HISTORT 

Michelet  communes  with  the  great  spirits  of  that 
day,  Desaix,  Marceau,  Kleber, — elder  sons  of 
the  Republic,  who  whisper  many  secrets  to  their 
pupil  as  he  turns  over  faded  pages  tied  with  tri- 
colored  ribbons,  where  the  cities  of  France  have 
written  their  affection  for  liberty,  love-letters  from 
Jacques  to  his  mistress.  Michelet  is  happy.  His 
long  labor  is  drawing  to  an  end.  The  great  epic 
which  he  has  followed  as  it  developed  through 
the  centuries  is  complete.  His  hero  stands  hand 
in  hand  before  the  altar  with  the  spouse  of  his 
choice,  for  whose  smile  he  has  toiled  and  strug 
gled.  The  poet-historian  sees  again  in  the  Fete 
de  la  Federation  the  radiant  face  of  his  vision,  the 
true  face  of  France,  La  Duke. 

Through  all  the  lyricism  of  this  master's  work 
one  feels  that  he  has  "lived"  history  as  he  wrote 
it,  following  his  subject  from  its  obscure  genesis 
to  a  radiant  apotheosis.  The  faithful  companion 
of  Michelet's  age  has  borne  witness  to  this  power 
which  he  possessed  of  projecting  himself  into 
another  age  and  living  with  his  subject.  She  re 
peats  to  those  who  know  her  how  he  trembled  in 
passion  and  burned  with  patriotic  emotion  in 
transcribing  the  crucial  pages  of  his  country's 
history,  rejoicing  in  her  successes  and  depressed 
by  her  faults,  like  the  classic  historian  who  re 
fused  with  horror  to  tell  the  story  of  his  com 
patriots'  defeat  at  Cannae,  saying,  "I  could  not 
survive  the  recital." 

"Do  you  remember,"  a  friend  once  asked  Ma- 


THE    WdrS    OF 


dame  Michelet,  "how,  when  your  husband  was 
writing  his  chapters  on  the  Reign  of  Terror,  he 
ended  by  falling  ill?" 

"Ah,  yes!"  she  replied.  "That  was  the  week 
he  executed  Danton.  We  were  living  in  the 
country  near  Nantes.  The  ground  was  covered 
with  snow.  I  can  see  him  now,  hurrying  to  and 
fro  under  the  bare  trees,  gesticulating  and  cry 
ing  as  he  walked,  'How  can  I  judge  them,  those 
great  men?  How  can  I  judge  them?'  It  was  in 
this  way  that  he  threw  his  'thousand  souls'  into 
the  past  and  lived  in  sympathy  with  all  men,  an 
apostle  of  universal  love.  After  one  of  these 
fecund  hours  he  would  drop  into  his  chair  and 
murmur,  'I  am  crushed  by  this  work.  I  have 
been  writing  with  my  blood!" 

Alas,  his  aged  eyes  were  destined  to  read  sad 
der  pages  than  he  had  ever  written,  to  see  years 
as  tragic  as  the  "Terror."  He  lived  to  hear  the 
recital  of  (having  refused  to  witness)  his  country's 
humiliation,  and  fell  one  April  morning,  in  his 
retirement  near  Pisa,  unconscious  under  the  dou 
ble  shock  of  invasion  and  civil  war.  Though  he 
recovered  later,  his  horizon  remained  dark.  The 
patriot  suffered  to  see  party  spirit  and  warring  fac 
tions  rending  the  nation  he  had  so  often  called 
the  pilot  of  humanity's  bark,  which  seemed  now 
to  be  going  straight  on  the  rocks.  "  Finis  Gallic" 
murmured  the  historian,  who  to  the  end  lived 
and  died  with  his  native  land. 

Thousands  yearly  mount  the  broad  steps  of 


THE     SPIRIT    OF    HISTORT 

the  Pantheon  to  lay  their  wreaths  upon  his  tomb, 
and  thousands  more  in  every  Gallic  schoolroom 
are  daily  learning,  in  the  pages  of  his  history,  to 
love  France  la  Dulce. 


THE     END 


By  Eliot  Gregory 

("An  Idler") 

WORLDLY   WAYS   AND   BYWAYS 

\irno  $1.50 
K2X£2WSXt^^ 

PRESS  NOTICES 

The  Idler's  papers  have  long  been  known  to  New  York 
readers  as  being  brief  and  pointed  essays  on  the  philoso 
phy  of  fashion,  folly,  and  foibles  as  exhibited  in  American 
society  both  at  home  and  abroad.  They  have  been  re 
vised  and  made  into  a  volume  that  is  attractive  to  the 
society  devotee  as  well  as  to  the  sociologist.  The  quali 
ties  of  shrewdness  and  sympathy  in  Mr.  Gregory's  work 
are  perhaps  equalled  by  no  other  local  writer  in  belles 
lettres. —  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

11 

It  is  so  full  of  faithful  observation,  of  worldly  but  whole 
some  wisdom,  and  it  is  withal  couched  in  such  good- 
humored  terms,  that  we  find  it  decidedly  entertaining. 
The  wide  experience  and  excellent  reading  shown  in 
the  book,  with  the  author's  cleverness  in  the  portrayal 
and  analysis  of  familiar  types,  make  him  a  welcome  and 
interesting  commentator  on  manners.  —  The  New  York 
Tribune. 

U 

A  handsome,  very  dignified  and  artistic  edition,  expres 
sive  of  the  charm  and  dignity  of  the  essays  it  contains. 
—  The  Hartford  Courant. 


11 

Mr.  Gregory  ranges  "  from  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to 
severe,"  hitting  Folly  as  she  flies  before  him  with  cap 
and  bells ;  and  much  he  says  here  our  sober  conscience 
must  approve.  He  has  a  pleasing  way  of  presenting 
things,  a  tone  more  of  good-humored  banter  than  of 
blame,  and  not  a  few  stray  bits  of  philosophy  have  here 
and  there  slipped  in  between  the  lines,  while  some  home 
truths  are  pressed  upon  us. — Detroit  Free  Press. 

H 

"Worldly  Ways  and  Byways"  presents  some  very  at 
tractive  qualities  to  the  meditative  reader.  It  contains  the 
observations  and  meditations  of  a  man  who  has  time  to 
look  at  life  and  men  and  manners,  and  time  also  to  write 
about  them.  It  is  the  work  of  an  observer  of  culture  and 
insight,  with  excellent  standards,  and  with  a  thorough 
sanity  of  temper.  —  The  Outlook. 

IF 

Mr.  Gregory  is  slightly  cynical,  frequently  serious,  oc 
casionally  witty,  generally  amusing,  and  at  all  times  in 
teresting. —  Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 

11 

There  is  probably  no  writer  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic 
who  could  do  quite  so  well  as  Eliot  Gregory  the  sort 
of  thing  found  in  this  delightful  collection  of  unpreten 
tious  essays.  —  The  Springfield  Republican. 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  PUBLISHERS 
153-157  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


D.  B.  Updike 

The  Merrymount  Press 

Boston 


A    000 


023  A30 


